Reformation Worlds: Antecedents and Legacies in the Anglican Tradition (Studies in Church History) 9781433133312, 9781453917947, 1433133318

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Otto&Power_cpi_cb_wenig.qxd 3/5/2016 7:40 AM Page 1

Thomas P. Power earned his Ph.D. from Trinity College Dublin. He has taught history at the University of New Brunswick and the University of Toronto. He is Adjunct Professor of Church History at Wycliffe College, University of Toronto. His teaching interests focus on eighteenth- and earlynineteenth-century church history. He has published in the area of religious conflict and conversion in Ireland. His current research interests focus on the history of theological education in the early nineteenth century and on forms of conversion in the Book of Common Prayer in the eighteenth century.

REFORMATION WORLDS

Sean A. Otto completed his Ph.D. at Wycliffe College, graduating from the University of St. Michael’s College in November 2013. He has published a number of articles on John Wyclif, Thomas Aquinas, and on medieval theology. He is currently Assistant Registrar and Adjunct Professor of Church History at Wycliffe College, University of Toronto. His research and teaching interests include John Wyclif (especially his sermons and pastoral theology), medieval theology, medieval sermon studies, medieval heresy, and the reception of the thought and works of Augustine of Hippo.

✠ OTTO AND POWER, EDS.

A reassessment of the precedents, course, and legacy of the Reformation has occurred in the present generation of academic writing. This collection of essays brings together research by established and new scholars on themes of the Reformation with a particular focus on its antecedents and legacies in the Anglican tradition. Utilizing a diversity of topics, approaches, and methods, this book adds measurably to our knowledge of the place of the Reformation in Britain and Ireland as well as its European, North American, and African particularities. Exploring a variety of themes, this collection examines the Reformation in relation to key aspects of church organization, belief, sacrament, conversion, relationships with other denominations, theological education, church and state, worship, and issues of resilience and decline. While these themes are pursued broadly, there is a particular focus on the context of the Anglican tradition in terms of Reformation preoccupations and concerns. This collection’s thematic content, chronological span, and geographical range will also challenge accepted views, deepen understanding, and highlight new areas of enquiry, bringing new research and insights to bear on established observations. Academics will find this book of particular interest for courses on the Reformation, Early Modern Europe, and the history of Christianity.

13

PETER LANG

www.peterlang.com

STUDIES IN CHURCH HISTORY ✠ 13

REFORMATION WORLDS ANTECEDENTS AND LEGACIES IN THE ANGLICAN TR ADITION

S E A N A . OT TO T H OM A S P. P OW E R

E D I T E D BY AND

Otto&Power_cpi_cb_wenig.qxd 3/5/2016 7:40 AM Page 1

Thomas P. Power earned his Ph.D. from Trinity College Dublin. He has taught history at the University of New Brunswick and the University of Toronto. He is Adjunct Professor of Church History at Wycliffe College, University of Toronto. His teaching interests focus on eighteenth- and earlynineteenth-century church history. He has published in the area of religious conflict and conversion in Ireland. His current research interests focus on the history of theological education in the early nineteenth century and on forms of conversion in the Book of Common Prayer in the eighteenth century.

REFORMATION WORLDS

Sean A. Otto completed his Ph.D. at Wycliffe College, graduating from the University of St. Michael’s College in November 2013. He has published a number of articles on John Wyclif, Thomas Aquinas, and on medieval theology. He is currently Assistant Registrar and Adjunct Professor of Church History at Wycliffe College, University of Toronto. His research and teaching interests include John Wyclif (especially his sermons and pastoral theology), medieval theology, medieval sermon studies, medieval heresy, and the reception of the thought and works of Augustine of Hippo.

✠ OTTO AND POWER, EDS.

A reassessment of the precedents, course, and legacy of the Reformation has occurred in the present generation of academic writing. This collection of essays brings together research by established and new scholars on themes of the Reformation with a particular focus on its antecedents and legacies in the Anglican tradition. Utilizing a diversity of topics, approaches, and methods, this book adds measurably to our knowledge of the place of the Reformation in Britain and Ireland as well as its European, North American, and African particularities. Exploring a variety of themes, this collection examines the Reformation in relation to key aspects of church organization, belief, sacrament, conversion, relationships with other denominations, theological education, church and state, worship, and issues of resilience and decline. While these themes are pursued broadly, there is a particular focus on the context of the Anglican tradition in terms of Reformation preoccupations and concerns. This collection’s thematic content, chronological span, and geographical range will also challenge accepted views, deepen understanding, and highlight new areas of enquiry, bringing new research and insights to bear on established observations. Academics will find this book of particular interest for courses on the Reformation, Early Modern Europe, and the history of Christianity.

13

PETER LANG

www.peterlang.com

STUDIES IN CHURCH HISTORY ✠ 13

REFORMATION WORLDS ANTECEDENTS AND LEGACIES IN THE ANGLICAN TR ADITION

S E A N A . OT TO T H OM A S P. P OW E R

E D I T E D BY AND

Reformation Worlds

Studies in Church History

John A. McGuckin and John W. Reeve General Editors Vol. 13

This book is a volume in a Peter Lang monograph series. Every volume is peer reviewed and meets the highest quality standards for content and production.

PETER LANG

New York  Bern  Frankfurt  Berlin Brussels  Vienna  Oxford  Warsaw

Reformation Worlds Antecedents and Legacies in the Anglican Tradition

Sean A. Otto AND Thomas P. Power

EDITED BY

PETER LANG

New York  Bern  Frankfurt  Berlin Brussels  Vienna  Oxford  Warsaw

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Otto, Sean A., editor. | Power, Thomas P., editor. Title: Reformation worlds: antecedents and legacies in the Anglican tradition / edited by Sean A. Otto, Thomas P. Power. Description: New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2016. Series: Studies in church history; Vol. 13 | ISSN 1074-6749 Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2015040628 (print) | LCCN 2016002331 (e-book) ISBN 978-1-4331-3331-2 (hardcover: alk. paper) | ISBN 978-1-4539-1794-7 (e-book) Subjects: LCSH: Christianity—Essence, genius, nature. England—Church history. | Reformation. Classification: LCC BT60.R43 2016 (print) | LCC BT60 (e-book) | DDC 283.09—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015040628

Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek. Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the “Deutsche Nationalbibliografie”; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de/.

© 2016 Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., New York 29 Broadway, 18th floor, New York, NY 10006 www.peterlang.com All rights reserved. Reprint or reproduction, even partially, in all forms such as microfilm, xerography, microfiche, microcard, and offset strictly prohibited.

Contents

Preface

vii

Acknowledgments

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Dedication

xi

Introduction ANDREW ADKINS, SEAN A. OTTO AND THOMAS P. POWER

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Reform, Revival, or Renewal: The Reformation After 500 Years EPHRAIM RADNER The Venerable Bede as a Visionary for Unified Christian Identities in the Anglosphere ANDREW ADKINS

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The Reform Program of John Wyclif’s Sermons SEAN A. OTTO

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Richard Hooker: The Confident Church of England Reformer DAVID NEELANDS

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Unworthy Reception and Infrequent Communion in the Tudor-Stuart Church ERIC GRIFFIN Pastors and Depression in Early-Modern England BRAD WALTON Lapsed Member and Penitent Convert: Reformation, Liturgy and Conversion in Ireland in the 1690s THOMAS P. POWER

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CONTENTS

Pioneer Irish Clergy in Upper Canada ALAN ACHESON

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Teaching and Writing History at Wycliffe College, Toronto, 1881–1944 NATHAN WOLFE

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Restoring Order in the Church: The Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline (1904–1906) GARY W. GRABER

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Education Reforms in Colonial Africa: Dynamics, Challenges and Impact on Christian Missions MWITA AKIRI

179

No Need to Turn Out the Lights: Anglicans in Canada in the Twentieth and Twenty-First Centuries BRIAN CLARKE AND STUART MACDONALD

199

‘Absurd Hats & Squeaky Boots’: C.S. Lewis Goes to Church PAUL H. FRIESEN

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Contributors

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Index

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Preface

This volume of essays is dedicated to Alan L. Hayes by a group of colleagues, former students, and friends. Alan has had a long and distinguished career as professor of church history at Wycliffe College since 1975, being promoted to his current position as Bishops Heber and Frederick Wilkinson Professor of Church History in 1989. Alan’s doctoral research was on The Vicegerency in Spirituals in England, 1535–1540 for which he was awarded a Ph.D. by McGill University in 1975. The thesis was a study of the role of Thomas Cromwell in achieving consensus among the different religious groups in England, correcting the abuses identified by the reformers, and thereby creating a degree of religious orthodoxy at a critical time. This past academic year Alan has completed forty years of teaching, a remarkable achievement. In that time his teaching has focused on the history of the Church to A.D. 843; Anglicanism; Canadian Anglican history; Reformation/early modern Christianity; historiography, and the history of theological education. More recently he has developed a new course on Christianity and the Indigenous peoples of Canada. He has supervised numerous doctoral students in their work, including some of those whose work is represented here. Alan has an impressive publishing record to his credit. Noted for his elegant prose and accessible style, Alan has authored works on the Diocese of Toronto, parish histories, John Wyclif, and numerous articles and essays. Of notable interest is a series of church reviews he contributed to Anglican and Episcopal History from 1988 onward. In addition, he has contributed to such publications as The Oxford Companion to Canadian History, Dictionary of Canadian Biography, and The Journal of the Canadian Church Historical Society. His monograph Anglicans in Canada: Controversy and Identity in

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PREFACE

Historical Perspective (University of Illinois Press, 2004) broke new ground for its thematic treatment and methodology. In many other administrative capacities he has served Wycliffe College, the Toronto School of Theology (the largest graduate school of theology in Canada), and other para-church organizations. Alan is now in his second term as director of the Toronto School of Theology, a role to which he has brought his administrative finesse. In dedicating this volume of essays to Alan Hayes we do so in celebration of his scholarship, teaching, and friendship.

Acknowledgments

We would like to acknowledge the help of a number of individuals who made this volume possible. We thank our fellow contributors for their enthusiasm for this project to honor Alan Hayes and for their respective submissions. Former Principal of Wycliffe College, now bishop of the Diocese of Dallas, George Sumner, approved a grant in aid of publication for which we are grateful. Apart from his own essay in the volume, Andrew Adkins contributed significantly in other ways through his work in formatting the manuscript, compiling an index, and contributing in large part to the Introduction. At Peter Lang we want to thank Michelle Salyga and Jackie Pavlovic. John McGuckin of Columbia University approved the manuscript for inclusion in the Studies in Church History series. Thomas Power & Sean Otto Toronto, December 2015

Alan L. Hayes Teacher, Colleague, Friend

Introduction ANDREW ADKINS, SEAN A. OTTO

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THOMAS P. POWER

The year 2017 marks the 500th anniversary of Martin Luther’s posting of his Ninety-Five Theses on the church door of Wittenberg, inaugurating the Protestant Reformation. This anniversary provides the occasion for a reassessment of the Reformation. Specifically, this volume of essays examines features of the Reformation as manifested in the Anglican tradition in terms of the notable antecedent figures of Christianity in Britain and Ireland before the dawn of the Reformation, and the subsequent legacies evident there and throughout the world in the half-millennium that has followed. Crucial to a reassessment of the Reformation is an estimation of its legacy in terms of contemporary contexts and preoccupations. Ephraim Radner observes that the laity of the various denominations resulting from the Reformation often submit confessional commitments to greater priorities of familial and communal integration or of solidarity in persecution. In sympathy with lay weariness of social disintegration and isolation, he recommends that the many separated institutions must—and can—transcend separatism in the mutual recognition of baptism. For in a world where even children are killed for Christ, Radner supposes, even Baptists might accept infant baptism as an identity marker. Increasing secularisation in the West and increasingly deadly persecution, for Radner, must press those who look to Jesus Christ for salvation to recognize that the world around them has already defined who and what a Christian is: someone who self-identifies in baptism and whose baptism now guides his or her moral (and thus political) sensibilities. For the world’s powerbrokers are not interested in abstract, otherworldly beliefs, but in concrete commitments that lead to actions that affect them. For just as the Nazis singled out Jews for persecution, so also hostile forces of another kind are rising to purge the world of those baptized in the name of the Holy Trinity.

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Radner does not call upon Christians to forgo the particular spiritual epiphanies and empowerment gained from their own experience of the faith in a rush to mutual recognition; he urges them to accept the fellowship of prayer and service that resists the political motive of merely separatist non-cooperation. Rather than focus on domination and the imposing of various degrees of exclusion upon one another, he encourages fellow Christians confronted with increasing disinterest and hostility from secularists and Islamists to follow the example of Chemin Neuf, a Catholic society that has extended to and received from separated siblings in baptism the invitation to live life together in a community of good works and prayer.

Doctrinal Issues While Radner eschews the relevance of doctrinal irresolution and denominationalism given the contemporary context, nevertheless both continue to be necessary areas of enquiry for the historian. As to the first, Sean Otto presents John Wyclif as a reformer often mistaken to be of the more ambitious sort associated with the sixteenth century. While he did elevate sermon over sacrament as later reformers did, Otto argues that his path of reform was nonetheless conservative because he resisted (recently introduced) novel doctrine and showed pastoral sensibilities informed by a minimalist understanding of scripture and of sacerdotalism. Otto looks to Wyclif’s sermon collections to make the case for his conservatism, examining the content of sermon cycles published for the use of other preachers. From his sermons, Otto observes that Wyclif wanted people to know that saints, even popes and apostles, are sinners; and that he, while not denouncing clerical status, resisted clerical abuses. Taking a minimalist (for Otto conservative) approach to scripture and the fathers, Wyclif simply affirmed the real presence of Christ in the eucharist, leaving the mechanics to mystery. For his (for Otto conservative) logic would not allow that Christ’s physical presence could be in that first host administered to his apostles. Otto argues that Wyclif also resisted the Fourth Lateran Council’s decree on mandatory annual confession, an external practice judged superfluous to—unforced and thus sincere—contrition over failure to love God and neighbour. To show that Wyclif is the more conservative voice within the broader movement of reform in fourteenth-century England, he compares and contrasts his views with those of Bishop Thomas Brinton, who resisted laxity in his priests and yet participated in Wyclif’s condemnation. Whereas both men are shown to be repulsed by clerical greed and fixed upon Christ’s cross as the remedy for sin, Brinton emphasizes the role of priest and sacrament, and

Introduction

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Wyclif the role of contrition in the heart open before God and the sacrament, if necessary, as sacramental rather than physical presence (inner intention). In the end, Brinton, emphasizing external action, reserved the right of excommunication as a form of discipline imposed from without; and Wyclif, emphasizing intention, submitted his own conscience—and that of laity in general—to God alone who imposes discipline from within. Despite the sentiments favouring liberalism and liberty that some may read back into Wyclif, Otto argues that his was a conservative ethos tied narrowly to inner obedience to God who sees much more than any bishop could. On another issue of doctrine, Eric Griffin confronts the view that the English Calvinists, and English Puritans in particular, devalued the eucharist to the point of infrequent reception. To the contrary, his study of early modern sermons, creeds and devotional literature suggests that English reformers, Anglican and Puritan, so highly prized the eucharist and the individual’s practice of the spiritual life that fear of unworthy reception descended upon Tudor-Stuart Britain, finding its way into the Book of Common Prayer and the Westminster Confession. This resulted in infrequent reception among Anglicans and Puritans, with non-conformists more likely to press for monthly or even weekly reception. As a corrective, Griffin exegetes St. Paul’s admonition to ‘discern the body’ not as recognition of Christ’s presence in sacramental bread, as Calvin and the Church of Rome would have it, but as recognition of Christ’s presence in the sacramental community, the congregation of the faithful. Then, after reviewing the works of decidedly self-critical writers, Griffin identifies Richard Baxter, Daniel Brevint, and Richard Sibbes as Calvinists who might correct the children of the English Reformation, for they are not bogged down by scruples upon scruples. Baxter advises troubled spirits to partake of communion in faith, despite doubts about worthiness after self-examination; Brevint focuses upon recognition of Christ in the sacrament rather than sins; and Sibbes advises frequent reception of communion as a practice prompting steady spiritual growth. What attracts Griffin to these writers is their focus upon regular, though not glib, reception of communion as an occasion for spiritual renewal. He concludes that the English Reformation became a victim of its own success. For in cultivating spiritual renewal appropriated through hearing the word of God, Anglican and Puritan reformers unwittingly promoted a non-material and individualistic spirituality that downplayed the role of the sacraments, especially the eucharist, within the ongoing and concrete communal experience of salvation offered by Jesus Christ. However, given the turn in theological thought towards the church, Griffin perceives a sign of hope that damage attendant to the English Reformation will heal without the loss of its benefits.

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In the Anglican polity liturgical, theological, and political ideas were all framed by the constitutional ties that bound church and state together. This legal relationship was foundational to the church’s establishment, and influenced how it operated. It applied to the ritual controversy that preoccupied the English Church from the later nineteenth century. The controversy cut to the heart of what it meant to be English and Anglican. Gary Graber recounts how the report of the Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline published in 1906 acknowledged significant interest in illegal high-church liturgical practices, yet also the overwhelming Protestant demand for enforcement of ecclesiastical discipline in favour of the Reformation settlement. The commission recommended a revision of the BCP’s rubrics allowing qualified latitude for Anglo-Catholics and insisted that those who persisted in catholicizing tendencies be indicted by an ecclesiastical court and released from service without pay. Parliament eventually rejected the revised BCP in 1927, and again in 1928; but, in 1919, did create an episcopal assembly with lay representation assigned to address doctrinal and liturgical matters, while retaining veto power to ensure royal supremacy. Graber suggests that English distaste for enforcement against conscience coupled with English insistence upon Protestant parameters for ordering public worship led to an unfortunate impasse on the roots of Anglican identity that leaves Anglicans today in a quandary. Some appeal to the Anglican Quadrilateral; others to institutional communion with Canterbury’s Lambeth Conference; and still others to continuity with the Ecumenical Councils and inherent episcopal authority. But, for Graber, far too many Anglicans—especially outside England—forget that Anglicanism is entrenched in Protestant culture itself, necessarily guided by its roots in a Protestant Crown that set parameters for liturgical ministers who look forward, obedient to that Protestant Crown, rather than look backward at the Catholicism that once held them. By implication, Graber asserts that resolute Anglican identity comes from acknowledging the views and practices articulated in the formative period of English Reform as the received wisdom.

Denominational Relations On the issue of denominationalism, David Neelands presents Richard Hooker as a figure useful to ecumenical dialogue in the wake of the Second Vatican Council on account of his presumably equitable position which, although reformed, is beholden neither to Calvin nor Luther, and which takes catholic perspectives into account, though not beholden to Aquinas. Neelands argues that some reformers, in the simplistic spirit of partisan loyalty, have supported

Introduction

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the Reformation by means of hyperbole entirely dismissive of a fully informed, reasonable treatment of scripture and the church’s longstanding interaction with it. Similarly, others—in their zeal for the Church of Rome—have held views that admit of no need of reformed motifs whatsoever. For Neelands, Hooker stands in the gap as a confident reformer who, at some risk, accurately articulates support for the English establishment in a nuanced way that credits and critiques Cardinal Cajetan and Martin Luther, Thomas Aquinas and John Calvin. With Rome and Aquinas, he would not acknowledge scripture as self-ratifying without the authority of the church; yet against them, he refused the idea that popes could command kings on political affairs in their own lands. With Luther, he adopted the throne-and-altar model of Christian civilization that afforded English monarchs influence among bishops, but he did not embrace the presumably reductionist notions of sola fide and sola scriptura. With Calvin, he affirmed an instrumental view of the eucharist and the importance of scripture for discerning the ways of God; but he would not venerate Calvin (whom he thought unduly prideful in matters political), nor accept the idea of irresistible grace, nor approve of the eradication of the episcopacy. In the end, Neelands argues that Hooker makes a good case for the view that those baptized into the Church of Rome and those baptized into the Church of England are part of the visible church. Thus Hooker’s fair-mindedness has been and should be recognized as a reasonable exemplar of practices that could bridge the current ecclesiastical divide, namely, Hooker’s readiness to point out truth in the other camp’s accurately presented views and his readiness to identify error in his own camp, when given to hyberbolic grandstanding. One aspect of denominationalism, historically and geographically, has been a consciousness among one religious group of its numerical inferiority relative to another group, and the role of conversion in redressing such a numerical imbalance. This was particularly the case in Ireland where Anglican adherents were in a decided minority. Thomas Power examines the religious context of Ireland in the 1690s, in particular the role of Anthony Dopping, Church of Ireland bishop of Meath, who advocated the conversion of Catholics and the re-conversion of those Anglicans who had lapsed into Catholicism under King James II. Spurred by the opportunity presented by the Protestant victory under William III, Dopping supposed that Catholics would convert given the new political reality. For this purpose he drafted liturgical forms and attendant pastoral practice to facilitate the entry of Catholics into the Church of Ireland. Although early in his career Dopping was supportive of efforts to evangelize Irish Catholics through the medium of the Gaelic language, his

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approach shifted from persuasion to pressure given the experience of Irish Anglicans under James II and in light of the victory of William III. His interest in Gaelic-speaking Anglicanism yielded to straightforward anglicization. Yet his efforts were frustrated by a lack of episcopal and royal support. Even the arrival of French Huguenot and German Palatine settlers and the enactment of penal laws directed against Catholics did not realize Dopping’s vision of an Anglican Ireland. The statistical dimension to denominationalism is also evident in demographic trends and patterns over time. In an insightful case study, Brian Clarke and Stuart Macdonald examine Canadian census data to outline the story of Anglicanism’s decline in Canada after the Second World War. They discover that Anglicanism moved from nearly fifteen per cent of the population before the war to about five per cent now, without losing its second place standing among Protestant denominations. Although concerned with the overall trends, they interpret statistics cautiously within the context of the ongoing decline of Canadian Protestant denominations, on the one hand, and the lowered rate of loss after the 1960s and stable solvency into the 1990s, on the other. Evidence from data pertaining to baptisms, Sunday school enrolments, confirmations, weddings, funerals, identifiable givers and attendance at Easter services, indicates 1964 as the point after which increasing Anglican losses occurred. They note how dramatic loss appears first in decreasing numbers of Sunday school enrolment and baptisms in and after the 1960s (suggesting parental disengagement of those returned from the war); then in decreasing confirmations and weddings in the 1970s and afterward (suggesting the disengagement of baby boomers); and finally in decreasing numbers of funerals in the 1990s (the end of boomer’s parents’ generation). Despite discouraging trends, losses did not impact attendance at Easter services and financial giving at the rate and time one might have expected, which facts suggest the persistence of cultural Anglicanism among those having returned from the Second World War, despite the dramatic losses of the 1960s. They conclude in hopeful confidence that a faithful Anglican remnant will rethink church finances and their expression of the faith in order to keep the doors of the Anglican Church open for the next generation of Canadians. Though its connection with demographic decline has not been established, down the centuries a particular pastoral problem of some concern to all denominations was that of depression or melancholia. Brad Walton shows that whereas sixteenth-century Catholics tended to moralize depression in line with the notion of acedia, their Protestant counterparts followed the rudimentary science available, distinguishing between the spiritual problem

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of the troubled conscience and the psychological problem of depression. Evidence from a range of contemporary pastors, shows that they recognized the medical profession as better suited to deal with physically-rooted depression despite the opportunity misery creates for the devil. This said, such pastors acknowledged the notion of real guilt that must be confessed and absolved; and some instances of depression can lead to salvation. They also observed how exceptionally pious persons, especially ascetics, tend toward depression that leads away from the assurance of God’s mercy and to spiritual peril. Walton concludes that, unlike thinkers in the wake of Freud who called upon mentally troubled patients to identify traumatic events or to resist irrational thought, the earliest Protestant pastors held views quite similar to those now accepted: that depression is a psychological condition to be treated as a disease rather than a moral or intellectual failure of courage or reason or integrity. In a case study of denominational alignment and preference, Paul Friesen notes the fascination of evangelicalism with C. S. Lewis for his contribution to the fields of apologetics and spirituality through widely varied genres vivified by his baptized and communing imagination. Yet Friesen finds one of evangelicalism’s most notable scholars, Alister McGrath, has claimed Lewis for evangelicalism by ignoring Lewis’ decidedly sacramental sensibilities. To reject Roman Catholicism, for Lewis as Friesen presents him, is not to orient oneself away from the primary significance of the Church as McGrath suggests. He proceeds to trace Lewis’ existential itinerary on the question of ecclesiology from his initial identification with Anglican Christendom as sensible civilization, to his appreciation of Christianity as a true myth, to his embrace of the Church as the vehicle through which one knows God in Christ through the agency of the Holy Spirit. Along the way, Friesen observes how Lewis admired the freedom among worshippers in Orthodox liturgies, and how he resisted debates of churchmanship within his own Anglican experience. The importance of such observations for understanding Lewis, says Friesen, is that Lewis held salvation to be mediated through the real presence of the body of Christ, both in the congregation of the faithful, the Church, and in the sacrament of holy communion. With such realities being primary and salvific, the Christian must respond to Christ’s invitation to partake of his body both by leaving irritation and debate with others and philosophical debate with oneself to the side so that one may enter, in simplicity, into the mystery of God who would dwell with and give himself to his people, whether one finds oneself with Anglicans or with Catholics or with Orthodox or with some kind of Protestant nonconformist.

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Education Theological colleges were non-existent in England at the time of the Reformation, as the universities of Oxford and Cambridge provided the education deemed necessary for orders. However, the expansion of Anglicanism to other parts of the world heightened the need for theological training for ordination. The foundation of theological schools did not coincide with the arrival in the new world of congregations whom future ministers were to serve. Many clergy came with immigrants to the new world having received their education in the universities of the old world. In his case study, Alan Acheson fills a lacuna in the historical record by presenting the lives of Canadian Anglican clergy of Irish stock. The bulk of his treatment focuses on the contribution of a group of Evangelical Anglican clergy who travelled from Ireland to Canada in 1832. Among them was Benjamin Cronyn who established Huron diocese in southwestern Ontario as its first bishop, built one hundred churches and founded Huron College, one of three theological colleges in Canada begun by Irish Anglicans. Of particular note is the missionary work of the Rev. Richard Flood who founded at least six churches and baptized numerous persons—notably among the First Nations. The work of these Irish clergy, and countless other Irish, laid the foundation for Anglican dioceses in Ontario, and for various rural and urban areas also. The Irish were prominent in the foundation in 1877 of Wycliffe College, Toronto, associated with the Blake family. As with similar foundations Wycliffe was privately owned, administered by a board of trustees, and emphasized a particular theological ethos, in its case an evangelical one. Some colleges were independent, while others came in time to be associated with universities. Some pursued a particular curricular focus. Nathan Wolfe argues that from its inception Wycliffe College required candidates for the ordained ministry to study history yet prioritized other aspects of preparation, such as the study of scripture and doctrine. Financial constraints and the desire to train clergy capable of ministry to educated laity spurred Wycliffe to establish collegial relations with the University of Toronto. This arrangement allowed Wycliffe to place its resources in theological training, while also providing its students with a general education and opportunities to engage those with differing religious, political and cultural commitments. This observation is not to affirm that Wycliffe never had a relationship to ecclesiastical history as practiced in Oxford or Cambridge, with interest in description and explication on the plane of the social sciences. For many years, George M. Wrong taught history at Wycliffe and examined ordinands in history before founding the Department of History at the University of Toronto. While at Wycliffe, his mission was to educate ordinands in the history

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of western civilization, and especially of England after the Reformation; and he drew many Wycliffe graduates into the University of Toronto’s M.A. program in history, students who would also pursue topics of interest to him. Despite producing a foundational influencer of English-language historiography in Canada, Wycliffe opted not to promote the secularizing academic culture of critical inquiry and publication within its walls. Instead, it adopted a posture more amenable to its ethos as an evangelical seminary. It employed educated theologians and biblical scholars to shape the historical perspective of future domestic and missionary clergy in the providential rise of Protestant England so that, as priests and bishops at home and abroad, they might further the cause of the gospel as understood according to low church sensibilities. Wolfe concludes that Wycliffe College was an institution that produced a significant historical researcher and writer early in its history; yet, while maintaining an interest in history relevant to its mission, nonetheless placed its resources into classroom teaching apropos to its ministerial mandate. Education at a broader level is addressed by Mwita Akiri who recounts the story of Christian education in Tanzania during the era of European colonial rule. After narrating key developments concerning racialized American influence on the British government, he concludes that white missionaries did do Tanzanians good despite their own self-interest. However, he argues that the greatest benefit for Tanzanians resulted from the power struggle between the European colonial state’s interest in retaining control of Africa and European church leaders’ interest in retaining control of their much larger educational infrastructure. He highlights the conflict between Thomas Jesse Jones of the PhelpsStokes Fund and J. H. Oldham of the International Missionary Council, supporters of church-state co-operation in education, and Roland Allen of the Church Missionary Society and Norman Leys, supporters of the mutual independence of church and state educational systems. The former emphasized the need to foster practical skills ‘for life’ in both church and state schools, instructing students in English on the microeconomics of household management and agriculture; the latter preferred a literary course of study delivered in the vernacular with an explicit focus on religious instruction and the cultivation of a Christian worldview. As for motivation, those advocating a practical education delivered in English did not wish to lift the mindset of African peoples to the notion of political independence, judged the natural result of a population literate in the vernacular. By contrast, those rejecting the requirement for church schools to teach practical skills in English resisted white state control of white missionaries’ efforts to evangelize people groups as in their current cultural state, without much concern to ameliorate the economic or political fortunes or links to the

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wider world. In addition, Leys’ mistrust of church-state co-operation lay in his conviction that Jones’ vision led to Africans becoming wage-workers for European governors and settlers. Such an arrangement, he thought, would prompt Africans to abandon Christianity if the churches were judged complicit in a policy that served Africans’ interests in the short term, but would ultimately undermine vernacular culture and political autonomy. Implying gratitude to providence, Akiri concludes that Tanzanians gained a better education from the secularizing policy of the colonial government, despite the motive of racial suppression, and a better sense of their own African and Christian identity from the vernacular church schools supporting African evangelization of Africans, despite white missionaries’ myopic vision that could not envision a time when white control could impede an educated, indigenous church. Andrew Adkins presents a typology of the development of the English Church drawing on models evident in the work of The Venerable Bede. He discerns in Bede’s account of interethnic tension during Britain’s conversion a vision for the unity of Christian identities, each embodying an archetype that reflects an aspect of the human condition. In Adkins’ view, Bede intuits a holistic model of Irish monastery, English monarch and monarchial council, and Latin magisterium as potentially co-operative institutions that together become orthodoxy (right worship). By means of tropological oneness in affect, anagogical holiness in body, literal catholicity in cultural will and allegorical apostolicity in mind (or formed conscience), Bede shows how Irish coenobia, English overkings and political class, and Mediterranean bishops worked together to become a holistic Christian civilization. With this model in mind, Adkins then interprets the history of the English church in the Anglosphere from Bede to the present, arguing that conventional eras, such as the High Middle Ages, the Reformation, the Enlightenment and subsequent political revolutions, and the current Postmodern Era, demonstrate shifts in reigning ethos resultant from the reordering of elements in the Bedan model. In support, Adkins shows how each element of Bede’s Christian ideal, when attaining hegemony in the Anglosphere, emphasizes its preferred philosophical and complementary institutional orientation, whether toward metaphysics and the priestly hierarchy (mind), or toward epistemology and the individualist network of the gentry (will), or toward axiology and lay egalitarianism (affect), or toward physicalism and the potential for autocracy (body). Adkins concludes that from a Bedan viewpoint Anglicanism’s threelegged stool attempts holism, but with priorities other than those of the Bedan model—effectively subjecting the apostolic mind (as tradition-constituted

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conscience) to the gentry’s scripturalism that allows latitude for cultural will (relevance) and to the laity’s priority of ‘reason’ manifest as thoroughly egalitarian ethics (evidently now shifting to a physicalist, even erotic, ethos). With Christendom devolved by the struggle of each archetype for hegemony, Adkins urges Christians favouring one ethos or another to trust Jesus Christ for salvation; and, following Bede’s example, he urges them to recognize one another as those seeking salvation—however misguidedly—in the idiom of one or another aspect of the human condition. The concerns of the Reformation were not new; discussions of doctrine and practice preceded it by many centuries, and many of the same concerns were voiced by theologians as varied as Bede and Wyclif. By the same token, those concerns have not been resolved in the near five centuries since the momentous events of the sixteenth century; the doctrinal and practical questions remain with us today, and we would do well to remember this and contemplate their meaning, as the authors here hope to have done in some small measure.

Reform, Revival, or Renewal: The Reformation After 500 Years EPHRAIM RADNER

No one doubts that the Reformation of the sixteenth century profoundly changed Western Christian life. But are we today actually identified by or with the Reformation and its forms? In Madagascar the Lutherans are eagerly studying the Augsburg Confession; the Anglican Diocese of Sydney in Australia steadfastly proclaims its adherence to the Thirty-Nine Articles of Religion, and encourages others in the Anglican Communion to do likewise; and younger Catholic priests in North America and France have embraced the Council of Trent with new enthusiasm. But this is all epiphenomenal. These post-Reformation echoes are but the flotsam left behind by a tide that has long since been sliding back out into the ocean of God’s providence. The Reformation was a profoundly important historical phenomenon that has left its indelible imprint. Brad Gregory’s The Unintended Reformation, marks a common, but sophisticated argument tracing many very particular modern moral and religious ills to quite specific aspects of the Reformation—individual Bible-reading being at the centre. Alistair McGrath’s Christianity’s Dangerous Idea, building on the claims of people like Ernst Troeltsch, identifies some of these same ideas but presses them in a more optimistic direction.1 But, the question of influence aside, the question as to whether anybody today cares about it in a transformative fashion needs to be posed. For if increasingly no one cares, then the issue needs to be posed as to those ecclesial distinctions the Reformation has left us with; the many churches, and many divided Christians. What shall we do with them? The answer proposed here is that we are to see them swallowed up in the death of baptism.

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The Reformation: Who Cares? The key reality today is that younger people, by and large, have little sense that long-standing denominational differences are all that significant. We can trace theological issues emanating from the Reformation and debates surrounding them which provide an outline of doctrinal articulation and divergence or convergence. But we can also trace the history of concern over distinction itself, which tells a different story. Whether the two stories are related is an open question. But the ‘history of concern’ indicates that concern has diminished drastically over the past 500 years, and especially over the past 50–60 years. From a period in the sixteenth century of careful naming and identifying of different groups—Lutheran, Papist, Anabaptist and so on − we have moved from the habits of demonizing, repelling, converting and excluding to ones of basic disinterest. What is a ‘Protestant Christian’, after all, in the eyes of an unformed and unbelieving secular citizen of France or Canada? While there are those who realize that Catholic priests do not marry, by and large, the actual commitments, practices and habits of Baptists, Lutherans, Catholics and Mennonites remain shrouded in the ancient hieroglyphs of a bygone era. For those who come to faith in Christ in this context, the details of these differences may or may not be defined; but they do not seem to be deeply etched in the process. That thousands of young people still flock to Taizé every year is no accident. The 2008 Pew Religious Landscape survey of the US reinforced this for many. It showed that almost 30% of religious adherents were actually another kind of adherent at some earlier time—often at multiple times. That 10% of American adults are ‘former Catholics’, a proportion that remains stable for Protestants as well, and that movement from one denomination or even religion to another is common. But it also made famous the growing body of adults who claim no religious affiliation at all, the ‘nones’ as they have since been called—well over 10% of the population.2 By 2012, that number had increased to between 15 and 20%.3 In Canada, the ‘nones’ are now estimated at about 25%.4

Concern and Accommodation These changes have been long in coming. Benjamin Kaplan’s Divided By Faith traces some of the complex dynamics of ‘concern’ and ‘naming’ of difference.5 These have been well studied within France, Germany, Switzerland, and England especially. The ‘rise of toleration’ has proven to be a scholarly industry of late, and detailed research on communities and

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their Catholic-Protestant, or intra-Protestant relations, has appeared.6 But, as Kaplan demonstrated, from the beginning of the Reformation’s aftermath of division, other avenues of bridging also developed historically: those of adjustment, accommodation, and even defiance in the face of socially demanded separation and distinction. There were many villages and towns where Catholics and Protestants were forced to use the same church building as there simply was not enough money to build separate ones, and local law demanded that each community be permitted to worship. One community in Switzerland, studied by Randolph Head, struggled over the fact that single municipal endowments were legally demanded to support both Catholic and Protestant ministers; the Catholics were in the majority: why should they pay for the Protestants? Still, communal loyalties won out over religious identities, with whatever difficulty.7 From anger and mutual disdain, these communities moved, steadily, to common respect; and finally, when it was permitted in the 20th century, shared liturgical services of one kind or another. Locality, proximity and family won out. There was a long practice of simply ignoring demands for separation by civic and ecclesial entities. Godparents would show up at confessionally distinguished baptisms for their family members; officially prohibited conventicles and chapels were pragmatically allowed to function virtually openly for decades and longer. Further, ‘intermarriage’ gradually chipped away at the immovable lines of demarcation among Christians; and, if not among the partners, at least among their children, propagated a message that confessional or denominational or ecclesial difference was ultimately powerless before the press of affection and family responsibility. By the eighteenth century, Britain had gone through the first stage of its ‘tolerating’ legislation and worries over diluted Christianity, notably Deism, began to surface. Anglicans and Dissenters, in this case, often read the same books of Christian apologetics, commended the same defenders of the faith, and shared the same general concerns in the face of other cultural tides that were now slowly pushing in against the shores.

Historical Shifts The complexity of oppositional and assimilative processes, politically and religiously, demand our attention. From 1517 to 1948 (the latter date serving as a kind of arbitrary rubicon of post-war internationalism), the rise of political and social toleration, mutually stoked by territorial compromise, shifting patterns of family and marriage, proximity and local cooperation; and, of course, the rule of money and trade that crosses all boundaries, led to

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a diminishment, a forgetfulness, and even a disdain of Christian difference. After 1950, a veritable surge in confessional intermarriage became evident, a trend that has continued.8 With it, the idea that doctrinal difference deserves to sustain religious distinction has simply withered. Not that this kind of dynamic went unnoticed by theologians. One of the possibilities most feared and detested by dogmaticians is that social currents, rather than ‘the truth’, might in fact sway human hearts and minds. The apprehension of the truth, after all, should be untainted by such forces. A wonderful quote in Kaplan’s book pertains to just this theological repugnance of social formation. The seventeenth-century Mennonite theologian, Thieleman van Braght, was unhappy about the social integration that Dutch toleration had brought his co-religionists. It was, after all, dulling the edges of their distinctive faith. So, writes Kaplan: Van Braght regarded toleration as a greater threat to the soul than persecution, and worried about the future. He had good reason: the integration of Mennonites [into Dutch society] in his day paved the way for their assimilation in the eighteenth century, when many ceased to find significant the differences between their own faith and that of other Dutch Protestants. Scores of Mennonite congregations collapsed and others shrank dramatically as their members abandoned them, joining the Reformed church or marrying Reformed spouses and allowing their children to be raised as Reformed Protestants.9

Only the self-segregated congregations survived as Mennonite. The rest survived just fine as well—no longer as Mennonites but rather as the great modern category we call ‘whatever’. But theologians are always worried that life will eclipse the importance of their craft, which is sustained by the very practice of making distinctions. Still, we cannot simply ignore ‘life’ in this case. For the kinds of histories Kaplan recounts can be telescoped into shorter periods in colonial or more recently evangelized areas of the world outside of Europe.10

Global Christianity The movement towards shedding distinctions is part of the rapid development of non-European Christianity. It has not been studied in much detail. But research on mission schools, for instance, and then the overturning of allegiances via decolonizing nationalisms, seems to indicate that the well-entrenched distinctions nurtured by missionaries have mostly crumbled among the historic churches (and even more recent ones). Indeed, reading and observation suggests the character of denominational and ecclesial identity has been rapidly losing its sharpness around the world. Pentecostalism

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(the most rapidly growing Christian movement in the world), while it has strong congregational rootedness, is also capable of easy uprooting and replanting. It is—some have argued—the most ‘portable’ of religions precisely because it is untouched by the routinized cognitive and doctrinal aspects of post-Reformational Christianity’s institutional demands. In China—perhaps Christianity’s greatest growth region—confessional identity is arguably irrelevant. Doctrine itself may be important, but is no longer tied to institutional character, tradition and corporate distinction. What does this mean for how people look at the various place-holders of post-Reformation Christian existence?11 In some contexts, the changes are very recent indeed. In the France of 1950, it was not surprising to find a well-known politically radical Protestant theologian who still refused to attend the wedding of his daughter to a Catholic, despite the anguish of the Second World War. Intermarriage has a long history in North America; and, for all the nativist, anti-Catholic elements of Protestant civil society, some of which linger, the collapse of confessional boundaries was working its way through society from the inside out, as it were, for two centuries. With the shift in mobility and education in the twentieth century, along with the transformation of nativism to an embrace of the immigrant society, the collapse became explicit and measurable.

Doctrinal Dimension It has to be admitted that entire areas of classically Reformation and PostReformation-era interest have simply evaporated. Even the hardiest Tridentine Catholic and pre-millennialist Fundamentalist can insist on the stakes being the same as in the 16th century only by raging against the tides of dis-interested Christian culture. We might like to think that the situation derives from theological rapprochement: harder thinking, more rigorous self-examination and the rest. We are victims of our own ecumenical success. Certainly ecumenical discussion has had a role to play in the crumbling of confessional distinction. Yet, it is a difficult one to quantify and order causally, and may well be the result, rather than the spur, to confessional insouciance. Likewise the radical shift in an articulated theology ‘of the other’ from the Roman Catholic side has had a role to play. The great decree Unitatis redintegratio, a document which could finally name Protestants as ‘brother’ or ‘sister’ Christians among whose communities the grace of Christ was at work, was certainly revolutionary. The odd thing, though, is that despite the fact that fewer and fewer care about it all, the confessional and doctrinal issues remain clear boundary markers,

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especially in Catholicism. For all the dialogue, Roman Catholic-Protestant discussions have achieved virtually nothing practical on these matters. On this score, the Joint Declaration on Justification between Lutherans and Catholics is telling. It is still the most prominent agreed statement articulated that addresses Reformation-era divisions. While it does represent the articulation of deep changes in thinking and attitude, does it in fact ‘change’ anything? Does it show how ‘doctrine’ can accomplish something in history? Does it change church engagements as ‘the body of Christ’? No. Lutherans and Catholics remain separated in ministry and sacrament as they always have been. What is the basis of the separation? Nothing more than the husks of denotated ecclesial bodies: this church and that church. It is not doctrinal in the least. If there is a new movement of anti-Protestantism among Catholics— and there might be—it is simply about how institutions relate, engage one another, order themselves. It is about division and submission. Even the great ecumenical liberal, Cardinal Kasper, indicated this when he got up in front of all the Anglican bishops at Lambeth and scolded them not for error but for not cooperating. We are separated because we have become people who exist in separation. That is, our Christianity is founded on such a relational posture. But on nothing else! What is not being proposed here is that Christians all believe the same things; or that this or that belief is without importance. For example, that Luther’s astonishing rediscovery, in a theological sense, of divine grace triumphing over twisted human effort, was not sublime; or that Catholic or Orthodox claims and experience of the eucharistic communion are not both profoundly true and challenging to much Protestant lazy thinking and irresponsible habits; or that Anabaptist insistence on the transcendent theosis of obedience itself to Christ is not a balm to a wicked and indulgent world, with its churches included. However true and worthy any of this may be, it is no longer the basis for the kinds of struggles that the Reformation era engaged and then set in motion. Those struggles have vanished. Today, the Reformation has left us with separated churches, not separated mindsets, that is, with a mindset of separation, and nothing more.

Current Challenge: Who Is a Christian? Separated churches in themselves create a mindset, a separative one at its root, but a similar one across the board. That is perhaps the thing we must confront. The question today is no longer ‘What is a Christian?’, which was the old question of the Reformation and its aftermath. It focused precisely on

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doctrinal questions: Is a Christian one who believes this or that? Is a Christian one who follows this or that practice? Is a Christian one who is bound to this or that order or authority? Such questions have left us with the shriveled and unappealing answer: ‘A Christian is someone who separates from other Christians’. The new question is: ‘Who is a Christian?’. This question must be answered in a new way, and with new tools theologically because it is a single question that, if answered rightly, offers a single countercharge to the separative mindset that we still share. The question ‘Who is a Christian?’ emerges from a range of factors, two of which are noteworthy. First, there is the obvious point that as people have shed their doctrinal clothing, one is left with, as it were, a ‘naked’ religious figure, the one we call ‘Christian’. But what is this naked Christian? Although it is a difficult question for some to answer in the West, at least in some places people can answer it, and very well. In September 2014, four Christian children were beheaded in Baghdad for ‘refusing to follow Muhammed’. The same month, a Christian pastor in Pakistan was shot to death by police for ‘blasphemy’, which seemed to include the fact that he preached at all. Again the same month, several Christians in Mosul, Iraq, were beaten and then executed for refusing to convert to Islam, which event was linked to several thousand Christians there being forced to flee for their lives.12 Currently we hear of scores of Assyrian Christians being kidnapped in northern Syria. In these nations, and in many others, Christians are being singled out, punished, jailed and tortured or killed for their faith regularly: over 300 per month are killed on average, and over 200 churches or properties destroyed. How, in these areas, do people answer the question ‘Who is a Christian’? This combination of de-specified Christianity in developed nations and persecuted Christianity in many other nations raises the question of the naked Christian more vigorously, and does so from a theological perspective, not only a social one. It was Pope John Paul II who, most famously described a ‘common martyrology’ as ‘the truest communion with Christ’. He was referring to the Catholic and Anglican martyrs of Uganda in the late nineteenth century whose common death for Christ, despite their separated churches, had joined them together in a way that was ‘perfect’: I now add that this communion is already perfect in what we all consider the highest point of the life of grace, martyria unto death, the truest communion possible with Christ who shed his Blood, and by that sacrifice brings near those who once were far off (cf. Eph 2:13).13

It has to be stressed how profoundly radical this claim is with respect to the Reformation.

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Martyrs Recently, Eamon Duffy defended Thomas More’s integrity despite his ordering, supervising and congratulating himself for rounding up, imprisoning and torturing Protestants. A heretic is, More said, ‘well burnt’. Still, More was a man of his times, Duffy contends: ‘His world was not our world’.14 After all, everyone did this sort of thing. Although More and William Tyndale were ‘diametrically’ opposed, at least they died as ‘witnesses that truth matters’. This conclusion is fair enough, but the contrast between their times and ours, therefore, is all the more remarkable. To be singled out in this case as a Christian (not as a Catholic or Protestant) and to die for that for which one has been singled out in just this way (you Christian!) is not only to be ‘one’, but to be ‘truly’ so ‘in’ Christ, that is, brought so close to him as to participate in the same life together. How was this understanding grasped? Did the many martyrs noted by competing churches somehow cancel one another out in their own thinking?15 Perhaps what was needed was a Christian leader who understood that this singling out was at the hands of that great force of anti-Christianity that was National Socialism, a singling out that was in fact first and fundamentally ordered not against Christians at all, but against Jews. After all, before we could ask the question, ‘Who is a Christian?’, the National Socialists wickedly forced the question, ‘Who is a Jew?’. National Socialism framed and answered the question in its own way, which has had ripples into the present. But in any case, with these definitions, the naked Jew was to become the bridge to the naked Christian. After the Second World War, a new understanding of Israel in the Bible in particular pressed the question for Christians in a special way: was not the naked Jew that within which the Christian finds his or her own ‘skin’, as it were? It has taken several decades for these kinds of questions to bear fruit on a more popular level. But the success of (and arguments over) the ‘new perspective’ on the gospels, and on Paul in particular, indicates what has happened. Now, when we hear Acts 26:23 (NIV), we hear something about Christian life given over in Israel, not apart from it. For Paul preaches that, according to ‘Moses and the Prophets’, ‘the Messiah would suffer and, as the first to rise from the dead, would bring the message of light to his own people and to the Gentiles’. There are Christians in the world simply because first there are Jews. To be joined to the suffering Messiah of Israel, announced by the giver of the Law, Moses, is at last to be a Christian by becoming a Gentile Jew. That is the ‘new perspective’, as it were.

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The shape of this shared vocation is indeed a peculiar one, as John Paul implies. It leads the Christian to a place of clear identity, shorn of all coverings. Just as a Jew in 1930s Germany could be singled out apart from all details—rightly or wrongly—so a Christian today can be as well. The test is simply who will call them out on ‘that day’, whenever it is, whether in Pakistan, Mosul, or Canada. Just as the question, ‘Who is Christ?’, is subsumed in the question of ‘Who is for me and not against me?’, so too the question of the naked Christian (Mk. 9:40; Lk. 11:23). To be with Christ is to be a Christian; and likewise, to be thus with Christ is to be with other Christians, nakedly, before the world.

Baptism The place where we can re-engage Reformation debates ecumenically in this regard is in baptism. For it is here that we confront the question ‘Who is a Christian?; and as a result, the question of ‘What is a church?’ emerges of its own. To be sure, the mutual recognition of baptism was never questioned among Catholics and most Protestants, the issue of Anabaptism aside. At least it was not questioned theologically. Calvin and others are clear about this from the Protestant side.16 Roman Catholics at Trent were adamant that baptism was valid, assuming its proper intention, even when performed by ‘Jews, infidels, and heretics’.17 Intention was not understood to be ecclesially ordered, but rather ordered to Christ more broadly: ‘regeneration by water in the word’, the ‘word’ being Christ himself. This is done by water in the name of the Trinity. Hence, Protestant baptisms are true baptisms. In practice, it was not so simple. Rebaptism was not uncommon, particularly in areas of conflict in the sixteenth century and later.18 Divided family loyalties, local pressures and zealous priests made the recognition of Protestant baptisms far from unanimous. Moreover, to cover their bases on the question of intention, it became a widespread habit later on for Catholic priests to provide at least ‘conditional’ baptism to those Protestants entering communion with Rome. Conversely, Protestants were hardly comfortable with anything Catholic, including their baptisms, and it was not unusual for some, especially in the hinterlands of America, to rebaptize Catholics. It was officially the case that, for all churches, other people’s baptisms were considered valid. That is, until the mid-1840s, when anti-Catholic sentiment in the United States stirred up a major controversy, out of which the Presbyterian Church formally declared Catholic baptisms invalid, much to the consternation of well-known Reformed theologians like Charles Hodge.19 It was an attitude that seeped into many corners of American Christianity. But even

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this has changed. Catholics no longer ‘conditionally’ baptize Protestants; and Protestants, by and large, do not rebaptize Catholics. To the question ‘Does a mutually recognized baptism (unlike, say, an agreement on justification) make a difference?’, one’s response is a resounding ‘yes’. Today, at least, it makes an enormous difference. In the first place, in a largely secularized society, baptism becomes a mark of who a Christian is, pure and simple. Or at least it does so more and more. Certainly, in non-secularized societies, including Islamic nations, it is not only a necessary mark, but a sufficient mark. In the second place, precisely as secularized or anti-Christian societies aim their animosity, or at least rejection, at Christians, the baptism of infants has become more plausible as a sufficient marker even for Baptist sensibilities. When baptized children in Iraq are beheaded, baptism is itself a symbol of something that goes beyond familial connections and touches something divine. This is evident as these children, members of churches long since viewed as heretical by many Protestants and Catholics alike, themselves become martyrs welcomed by Catholic, Magisterial Protestant and Baptist. This baptism has stripped away an obscuring veneer to reveal the ‘true Christian’. Even children can ‘be Christians’, it seems. Finally, mutually recognized baptism, if pressed theologically, bears a good deal of potential fruit in Christian self-awareness, and thus in ecclesial definition. In this regard, Catholic discussion of baptism over the past seventy-five years is relevant.

Baptism: Catholic Discussion Baptism, Catholic documents as recent as 2000 tell us, ‘incorporates’ someone into Christ;20 that is, baptism makes us part of the Body of Christ. This seems to be distinct from earlier Catholic claims before the 1940s that separated Christians only have ‘a certain relationship’ with the ‘mystical Body of Christ’.21 But this notion of ‘incorporation into Christ’ is now standard language for Rome, at least since the Second Vatican Council. Pope Benedict reiterated it clearly in 2005: Among Christians, fraternity is not just a vague sentiment, nor is it a sign of indifference to truth … it is grounded in the supernatural reality of the one Baptism which makes us all members of the one Body of Christ (cf. 1 Cor. 12:13; Gal. 3:28; Col. 2:12). Together we confess that Jesus Christ is God and Lord; together we acknowledge him as the one mediator between God and man (cf. 1 Tim. 2: 5), and we emphasize that together we are members of his Body (cf. Unitatis redintegratio, III: 22; Ut unum sint, no. 42). Based on this essential foundation of Baptism, a reality comes from him which is a way of being, then of professing, believing and acting. Based on this crucial foundation, dialogue has borne its fruits and will continue to do so.22

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What, then, is this ‘Body of Christ’ which is not the Catholic Church, or at least not coterminous with it? Or is the incorporation of baptism only partial? (That is not said; rather the term, from the Second Vatican Council is ‘imperfect communion’, though not with the Body, but with the Church). There are interesting questions here that remain only vaguely resolved. Thus, Unitatis redintegratio spoke of baptism as ‘true incorporation’ into the crucified and glorified Christ, and thus into his unity. But it also spoke of such an incorporation as only a ‘beginning’ that must move to a proper ‘profession of faith’ and ‘complete integration into Eucharistic communion’. This is the kind of theological place requiring further elucidation. What is this stunted yet ‘true incorporation into Christ’, if indeed it is in fact ‘true’ at all? For if we are all Christians, members of Christ’s actual ‘Body’, whether mature or immature, young or old in our progress in the faith, we are wrapped up in Him. Everywhere we go, everywhere we stand, everywhere we attempt to be faithful, we do so ‘with’ Him, because we are ‘in’ Him. That is the claim of ‘one Baptism’. It is also the claim of Christian identity because it states that in baptism we are ‘with’ Christ and He ‘with’ us. If we are in this kind of Christic proximity, is not our proximity to one another as Christians yet more impossibly decoupled? Are we not already, as baptized, so bound to one another that, as in marriage, no ‘man’ shall ‘put it asunder’? These ideas derive from earlier discussions such as the so-called Lima Statement of the World Council of Churches’ Faith and Order Commission, which asserted that ‘[t]hrough baptism, Christians are brought into union with Christ, with each other and with the Church of every time and place’.23 But, despite these kinds of statements being reiterated elsewhere24, the actual meaning of the claim has yet to be grasped. Perhaps it is just a question of timing.

Baptism as Christian Identity The timing has changed; and it is apparent that in our present world this sense of baptism as our Christian identity is now emerging as all that counts. While the Reformation debate more or less understood this in theory, it did not understand it in practice; indeed it had little sense of its meaning at all. We should try to grasp sympathetically the context of this past debate. But whether we do or not, the context has now decisively changed. It is the question of Christian identity: in this Catholic discussion, rightly bound up with ‘incorporation’; with the ‘Body’ of Christ; with that which is born and grows and is finally stripped bare, left alone before the world as-and-with the ecce homo of our Lord; it is this question of the naked Christian that is at issue.

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For when the world asks ‘Who are you?’, it is asking ‘Where do you stand?’ (on life and death, on sex and children, on war and peace, on economic priorities). Just as in Germany of the 1930s and 1940s, or just as in Iraq, Nigeria or New York today, the Christian is no longer able to say, ‘I stand with the TULIPers’, or ‘with the pope’ or ‘with the tongue-speakers’ or with whomever, and justifiably think he or she has actually answered the question. For we all stand with Christ, whom we confess as Lord together by the same Holy Spirit (1 Cor. 12:3).25 The realignments of Christian groups according to specially moral commitments of the last decade or two is something that many have noted (ecumenists somewhat irritably, since it has thrust aside the previously all-consuming questions of doctrine and order).26 This new moral realignment, for instance, has brought Evangelicals and Catholics together in utterly unexpected concert in some respects (although not in others). It constitutes a process of identity-articulation, not simply a matter of political concern. It is part of a still stumbling process of reframing and rearticulating our Christian identity in the face of a world that seems to know better who we are than we do ourselves. As Christians, in fact, we have not figured this out.

Reformation Legacies That we have not yet done so is tied to the fact that the Reformation remains a hovering shadow, no longer filled with the grace of discovery and freedom that it once had. Certainly it did have it both among Protestants and Catholics in their own renewal. It was something that touched all portions of that era, as the missionary expansion of the Church both outside of but also within Europe demonstrated: learning, preaching, praying, travelling, giving over one’s life. That energy, derived from that set of engagements and even hostilities, is now gone. Instead, we have been left with the pieces of the body that the Reformation rearranged. Within each, whether we call it a church or communion or fellowship, we locate our membership, shaped by allegiances defined in terms of various templates of ‘faith’ and local order. But these are templates detached from the single ordering of God in this oneness of which baptism stands as a central and active expression. Hence, our politics remains ‘just’ politics, for there is no ‘body’ to which it is attached. Individualized Christian identity is nothing but a political commitment within whatever might be the present sphere of challenge. It is not suggested that, as baptized Christians, Protestants and Catholics, Pentecostals and Orthodox, we now simply hold hands around the eucharistic

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table singing: ‘They will know we are Christians by our love, by our love’. Though we could do worse (and we have done worse), it is still naïve and inadequate. If the question is ‘Who is a Christian?’, then we must actually engage the recognition that we are it. We must, to transform the metaphor to Zechariah’s messianic vision, gaze upon each other’s nakedness as upon ‘the one whom we have pierced’ (Zech. 12:10). Naked Christianity means being pierced together. It is one of the greatest blasphemies that the business of dealing with persecuted Christians has been given over, in our era, to political human rights groups, rather than to the united body of Christ. The Reformation taught us how to live apart as Christians. Now, amid the hollowed wreckage of our churches that receding tides have left, we must learn how to live together as Christians anew, and not merely as members of this or that domicile of allegiance. Cardinal Kasper, towards the end of his leadership of the Vatican’s Pontifical Council for Promoting Christian Unity, suggested that the time had come for an ‘ecumenical catechism’ to be worked on, articulated, and followed.27 The notion was immediately branded by some as ‘ecumenical modernism’, and nothing has apparently come of it. But it is just this kind of suggestion and mission that makes sense today: we must learn together what it means now to be baptized together in the Lord Jesus Christ, in the face of the world. Does this sound both too simple and too hard? In answering this question one thinks of the remarkable work of the Catholic-Ecumenical community of the Chemin Neuf or ‘New Way’.28 Founded by a Jesuit in the 1970s out of a charismatic Catholic environment, the community now has several thousand members around the world who live or are associated together, and deliberately include members of multiple traditions in addition to the core Catholic membership. They number celibate priests, sisters and brothers, but also families from all these traditions. Chemin Neuf is, however, a formal Catholic ‘association’. Although its governing body includes non-Catholic members, it has been entrusted with the direction of Catholic parishes in various dioceses. It is active in evangelization, in marriage and divorce counseling and retreats, in teaching and theological training, but mostly in common prayer and in that which comes out of ‘life together’. This even includes, at times and with the permission of local Catholic bishops, intercommunion among its Catholic and non-Catholic members. Recently a small Chemin Neuf group was invited by the Archbishop of Canterbury to come live at Lambeth Palace, and to direct a program of community formation for interested young people. This is the kind of place where an ecumenical catechism would be rightly worked through and applied. Arguably this is the future because it is the breath exhaled from the present.

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The Chemin Neuf ecumenical and ecclesiological vision is that the Spirit has drawn us together, and will take us where it will. We can say no more than this. That Taizé and Chemin Neuf and a few other related groups remain specialized ministries or devotional choices, is probably odd. It is what whole churches, dioceses and denominations should be doing with one another; and it is predictable if not now, they will, sooner or later. The Reformation, the Counter-Reformation, the Catholic Renewal and all the rest are not only over, but their particular concerns have waned. We are now cleaning off our bodies, peeling off the layers, having our clothes divided and being called to take our places together in the place where we are not to ‘be anxious beforehand what you are to say; but say whatever is given you in that hour, for it is not you who speak, but the Holy Spirit’ (Mk. 13:11).

Notes 1. Brad S. Gregory, The Unintended Reformation: How A Religious Revolution Secularized Society (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012); Alistair E. McGrath, Christianity’s Dangerous Idea: The Protestant Revolution: A History from the Sixteenth Century to the Twenty-First (San Francisco, CA: HarperOne, 2007); Ernst Troeltsch, Protestantism and Progress: A Historical Study of the Relation of Protestantism to the Modern World, W. Montgomery, trans. (1912; reprint, Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 1958). 2. http://religions.pewforum.org/reports?sid=ST2008022501236. 3. http://www.pewforum.org/2012/10/09/nones-on-the-rise. 4. http://www.pewforum.org/2013/06/27/canadas-changing-religious-landscape. 5. Benjamin J. Kaplan, Divided by Faith: Religious Conflict and the Practice of Toleration in Early Modern France (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007). 6. The work of Cary J. Nederman is notable. See Margaret C. Jacob, Strangers Nowhere in the World: The Rise of Cosmopolitanism in Early Modern Europe (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006). 7. Randolph C. Head, ‘Religious Coexistence and Confessional Conflict in the Vier Dörfer: Practices of Toleration in Eastern Switzerland, 1525–1615’, in John Christian Laurson and Cary J. Nederman, eds, Beyond the Persecuting Society: Religious Toleration Before the Enlightenment (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1998), 145–65. 8. See Will Herberg Protestant-Catholic-Jew: An Essay in American Religious Sociology (1955; reprint, Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 2012); Matthijs Kalmijn, ‘Intermarriage and Homogamy: Causes, Patterns, Trends’, Annual Review of Sociology 24 (1998), 395–421; Claude Bovay and Roland J. Campiche, ‘Les marriages mixtes: restructuration ou dilution des identifications confessionnelles’, in Jean-Paul Willaime, ed., Vers de Nouveaux Oecuménismes: Les Paradoxes Contemporains de l’ Œcuménisme: Recherches d’Unité et Quêtes d’Identité (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1989), 157–85. 9. Kaplan, Divided by Faith, 204.

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10. For an instance of this in Africa from the point of view of naming and demonizing, see Ephraim Radner, Brutal Unity: The Spiritual Politics of the Christian Church (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2012), 63–120. 11. Emma Wild-Wood, Migration and Christian Identity in Congo (DRC), Studies of Religion in Africa 35 (Leiden–Boston: Brill, 2008); Brendan P. Carmody, ‘Catholic conversion and school in Africa today’, Journal of Church and State 55/2 (2012), 245–263; Alexander Chow, ‘Protestant ecumenism and theology in China since Edinburgh 1910’, Missiology: An International Review 42/2 (2014), 167–180; Manuel A. Vásquez, ‘The Global Portability of Pneumatic Christianity: Comparing African and Latin American Pentecostalisms’, African Studies 68/2 (Aug. 2009), 273–86; cf. Paul Sullins, ‘Beyond Christendom: Protestant-Catholic Distinctions in Coming Global Christianity’, Religion 36/4 (2006), 197–213. 12. For reliable data, see the site of the International Institute for Religious Freedom, http://www.iirf.eu; see also the site of Open Doors International, https://www. opendoorsusa.org/christian-persecution. 13. Ut unum sint (1995), 84. Most conveniently found at https://w2.vatican.va/content/john-paul-ii/en/encyclicals/documents/hf_jp-ii_enc_25051995_ut-unumsint.html. 14. Eamon Duffy, ‘More or Less’ The Tablet, 29 January 2015, http://www.thetablet. co.uk/features/2/4525/more-or-less. 15. Brad S. Gregory, Salvation At Stake: Christian Martyrdom in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999). 16. John Calvin, Institutes 4.15.14–18. See William B. Evans, ‘Rebaptism: Turning a Pastoral Dilemma into a Teaching Opportunity’, Faith and Practice 1 (1995), 37–42. 17. For the Catechism of Trent’s treatment of baptism, see J. Donovan, trans., Catechism of the Council of Trent, published by command of Pope Pius the Fifth (Dublin: W. Folds, 1829), 158, 168. See also the Council of Trent, Session 7, De Baptismo, canon 4. 18. Elizabeth C. Tingle, ‘The Conversion of Infidels and Heretics: Baptism and Confessional Allegiance in Nantes During the Early Wars of Religion (1550–1570)’, French History 22/3 (Sept. 2008), 255–274. See also the work of Thierry Wanegfellen, including La reconnaissance mutuelle du baptême entre confessions catholique et réformée au XVIe siècle (Montpellier: Institut protestante de théologie, 1994); Keith P. Luria, Sacred Boundaries: Religious Coexistence and Conflict in Early Modern France (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2005). 19. Charles Hodge, ‘The General Assembly’, The Biblical Repertory and Princeton Review 16 (1845), 445–8. For the period from 1845 to the present, see ‘Report of the Study Committee on Questions Relating to the Validity of Certain Baptisms’, in Minutes of the Eleventh General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church in America (1983), 302–11. 20. Dominus Iesus (2000), 17. 21. Mystici corporis (1943), 103. 22. Apostolic Journey to Cologne on the Occasion of the XX World Youth Day Ecumenical Meeting: Address of his Holiness Pope Benedict XVI, 19 August 2005 available at https://w2.vatican.va/content/benedict-xvi/en/speeches/2005/august/documents/hf_ben-xvi_spe_20050819_ecumenical-meeting.html 23. ‘Baptism, Eucharist and Ministry’, Faith and Order Paper 111 (Geneva: World Council of Churches, 2013), 6. Known as the ‘Lima Text’, it is available here: http://www.oikoumene.org/en/resources/documents/commissions/faith-and-order/i-unity-the-

28

24. 25. 26.

27. 28.

EPHRAIM RADNER church-and-its-mission/baptism-eucharist-and-ministry-faith-and-order-paper-no111-the-lima-text. ‘The Church: Towards a Common Vision’, Faith and Order Paper 214 (Geneva: World Council of Churches, 2013), 24. See also Paul Avis, Christian in Communion (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1990). Identity is a complex of actions and their cognitive and emotional meanings. The former are definitive and the latter are inevitably diverse. Thus our actions do all the talking—at least insofar as we would be understood by one another. See Elias of Beirut and Alan C. Clark, ‘The Ecumenical Dialogue on Moral Issues: Potential Sources of Common Witness or of Divisions’, The Ecumenical Review 48/2 (April, 1996), 143; Daniel J. O’Neil, ‘Forging a Catholic-Evangelical Alliance in the American Context’, International Journal of Social Economics 22/9–11 (Sept. 1995), 90–108; Michael Root, ‘Ethics in Ecumenical Dialogues: A Survey and Analysis’, Journal of Ecumenical Studies 45/3 (2010), 357–75. Cf. http://www.catholicnews.com/data/stories/cns/1000540.htm. http://www.chemin-neuf.org.

The Venerable Bede as a Visionary for Unified Christian Identities in the Anglosphere ANDREW ADKINS

Nicene Trinitarians of every sort increasingly recognize the problem of oppositional Christian identities linked to the Fourth Ecumenical Council, the Great Schism of 1054 and the Reformation. No doubt the combined force of trenchant Secular Humanism and volatile Islam within the Anglosphere, and beyond it, have persuaded many Christian thinkers, such as Ephraim Radner, that complete like-mindedness in theological matters is now, and may always have been, unaffordable. As Christian influence wanes worldwide, vigilance over ecclesial identities—especially those of early modern times—is declining. Anglospheric (and Eurospheric) faithful often marry across denominational lines or shift denominational loyalties; and Christians in Africa and Asia find oppositional Christian identities at best alien to their histories and at worst tragic before violent hostility to baptism. Radner supposes, then, that loyalists to Protestant or Catholic reform, revivalist or renewal movements fight battles pertinent to the circumstances of a yesteryear long since passed. By implication, the self-denial of Trinitarian water baptism in the agnostic indifference of consumerist culture should lead to mutual recognition; and readiness for the baptism of blood should become a reasonable basis for some kind of fellowship, whether of service or prayer, word or sacrament.

Bede’s Judeo-Christian Heuristic as a Model for the Integration of Christian Identities Neither oppositional Christian identities, nor the desire to transcend them are new to the Anglosphere. In the first century of Anglian Christianity, The Venerable Bede bore notable witness to oppositional Christian identities in

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Britain against the backdrop of Wodenism; and projected unity upon them through an ordered system of institutional relations presented as interethnic conflict resolved in Jesus Christ. Close examination of Bede’s writings reveals this interethnic tension to be the clash of subcultures affirming the episcopal, executive, ethicist or exceptionalist ethos, which is evident even now. Bede’s striking insight is that he intuitively understood the Christian faith to integrate the very affective/relational, physical/sensory, instrumental/volitional and noetic/ideational components of the human condition that inspire oppositional identities. For Bede, integration manifested itself as English Christendom guided by Rome, the Apostolic See of the West.1 His Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum (hereafter HE),2 implies that insular ethno-linguistic entities exemplify institutions like those of the Israelites, but now embodying the fourfold patristic hermeneutic. The Latinate priesthood personifies a sober-minded allegorical way of being that ensures the apostolicity of that teaching which forms consciences and absolves them. Germanic kingship therein cheerfully embodies a literal or historical way of being that establishes Christian identity through the catholicity of adiaphoric freedom. Irish monasticism incarnates a righteously indignant tropological way of being that fosters oneness through a just example of peaceable living. Over against these ways of typifying the sober head, the indignant heart and the cheerful hand, the anagogical way of being draws attention to the sacred life-principle of holiness that comes from the life-breathing divine presence. Reverent fear, awe and exhilaration follow. This anagogical mode of being is typified not by the king-in-council, but by the overking-in-battle courageously defending borders, calling councils to settle disputes and routing death-dealing chaos. Each of the first four modes is a modus operandi for peaceable oneness, joyful holiness, hopeful catholicity or faithful apostolicity, but the eremitical way rests in the state of loving dispassion, mystically attempting holism through the right worship of orthodoxy as oneness and holiness and catholicity and apostolicity unencumbered by insisters upon one priority or another. No one typifies this state of being more, for Bede, than Cuthbert of Lindisfarne. For Cuthbert, a blue blood for being English, accepts the contribution of Latinate priests and Irish monks. He inherits the Melchizedekian priesthood in communion with Theodore of Canterbury, enabling him to perform the miracle of the eucharist.3 He lives in the present as a righteous abbot performing miracles in the Elijah-like spirit of Aidan of Lindisfarne;4 and he serves as counsellor to the baptized English kings5 who, in their forward-looking outlook, would implement God’s kingdom in history as David did, through the providential success of the Oswaldian line.6

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A Philosophical Reading of the Judeo-Christian Heuristic Evident in Bede’s Anglian Ideal An elucidation of Bede’s paradigmatic roles, requires one to reveal the metaphysical, epistemological and axiological orientations of each over against the others. The purpose is to show how the archetypes express one or the other element of the affect, the body, the measuring mind as instrumental will or the qualitative mind as formed conscience; and to show the same whether viewed metaphysically, epistemologically or axiologically. The implication is that just as the human condition requires re-integration after the Fall, so also must each ethos-type work alongside others retaining its distinctiveness as a modal aspect of the human condition. Concerning metaphysics, each archetype espouses a cosmic paradigm manifesting alternative assessments of space-time reality. The king’s councillors find the cosmos decidedly favourable, with bounty there for the taking. Being literalists, they view space provincially and look forward to future plans believing, like Israel’s governors or King Edwin’s men, that God will bless them.7 In this optative cast of mind, the cosmos appears decidedly benevolent as though divine favour ensures unqualified forgiveness. Cheerfully grateful, the royal council personifies the quantitative, instrumental mind focused on strategic adaptation calculated for effective and efficient execution of goals. Although the bishop shares the royal council’s allegiance to the cosmos, his view is only qualifiedly favourable; he knows that resolute sinfulness results in a fall from grace. The priest, like Zadok or Theodore of Canterbury, peers back into traceable time as custodian of traditional wisdom,8 rather than open-endedly designing future plans. For his vision occurs not in the mesocosmic scope of the ruling class, confidently consolidating or expanding vested interests and borders. Instead, it is ultra-cosmic, convinced that the truth he holds pertains universally. He aligns himself with a qualifiedly benevolent God’s allegorical blueprint; and, in the indicative mood of truth, cultivates sobriety and sorrow over sin, typifying the qualitative mind shaped by the stability, subtlety and starkness of God’s self-revelation. By contrast, the tropological abbot and the anagogical overking-in-battle indwell cosmic alienation as though the cosmos were opaque, unfriendly or even dangerous.9 The tropological abbot, like Aidan of Lindisfarne, discerns the environment to be decidedly unfavourable and withdraws to Holy Island to walk righteously in an exemplary community. The coenobium indwells hospitality in the now because of the macrocosmic scope of its affinitive vision. For all persons—rich and poor, friend and foe, saint and sinner—exist on the one spectrum of humanity.10 Such affectivity shapes the abbot through

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moral imperatives, inclining him to righteous anger against contemptuousness and making him the heart’s personification. The anagogical overking-in-battle, although alienated like the abbot, perceives reality as uncertain, and therefore as open to chance, or only qualifiedly unfavourable. Unlike the abbot’s scope of awareness, the embattled ruler indwells the microcosm of the individual who breathes in the present instant and occupies the ground underfoot. Operational here is the binary appeal of those for and those against. One dare not touch ‘the Lord’s Anointed’, his own adopted son who indwells the subjunctive mood of holy fear in awe at life itself. For, he knows that he is a physical creature in the hands of a God who grants victory and defeat. One may also present the same heuristic as theories of knowledge evident in rationalities that match sociological schools and sponsor institutional structures that reflect differing views of authority and religious knowledge. The cosmically allegiant priest is an epistemological authoritarian who accepts divine self-revelation as the key to knowledge. His conviction rationality upholds mutually reinforcing tenets, which gain plausibility together and are mediated concretely in sacraments. Such a view of knowledge acquisition sponsors a functionalist theory of social relations, for the priesthood and plays the leading role within a qualitatively hierarchical group. In tune with the theme of hierarchy, membership in the magisterium, the rule of the few, comes by appointment from among an appointable type. The judicial nature of such erudite authority follows precedents set by the authoritative office called to safeguard the wise, conciliar mind of tradition.11 Correspondence theory best describes the epistemology most amenable to the cosmically-allegiant and historically-minded royal council that concerns itself with plans implemented in real space and time. Exchange theory (or rational choice theory), also describes the instrumental rationality of do-ut-des that defines a royal council. At the hub of such a quantitative hierarchy, the monarch holds mandated or political authority supported by an individualist network of dukes who back him in loyal expectation of reward. To such a mind-set, scripture itself becomes the favoured source of religious knowledge for at least two reasons. First, being written, it rewards a literary form of rational empiricism that requires no trust of others who, without the requirement of repeatable results, could control them by defining meaning; and more notably, without the overarching schema of an authoritative, allegorical set of iconic relations, the will to executive judgment enjoys greater latitude for contextual adaptation. One notes here how King Oswiu simplified the debate between priestly Wilfrid and prophetic Colman with an executive question: Who takes charge in heaven: Peter or Columba?12

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The tropologically-minded coenobium, for its part, accepts coherence theory as that which abets abbots who guide an egalitarian group known for its legislative ethos and hospitality. For such rationality is formal and coherentist, governing all by a shared Rule that accepts everyone. Although Bede’s Irish abbots do hold an unequal place among coenobites, their authority is charismatic. It attracts and retains adherents by symbolic interactionist ways, fostering a sense of belonging. This vision leads people to accept the humane reasonableness of relational abbots like Columba (or Columbanus) as a source of religious knowledge.13 Finally, the anagogical orientation of the overking-in-battle leads to a pragmatic theory of knowledge geared to the rule of one, which justifies the substantive rationality of equity and exceptionalism. No system rejecting the conflict theorist is acceptable to him, the fatalist isolate who reaches for God on the brink of life and death. Religious knowledge here is ecstatic, coming in trances like that of King Edwin who, in dire straits, saw an apparition; and authority rests in the organic, physical and parent-like power de facto to enforce and to protect.14 As to axiology, one may consider each archetype as a perspective on human nature manifest in approaches to morality and conflict resolution, describable by the four marks of the church. Immersed in literal events, cosmically allegiant royal councillors view human nature pessimistically. Feeling pressure to maintain prestige, magistrates recognize incorrigible self-interest in themselves even while doing good, and thus, the need for unqualified divine grace. For them, everyone has a stake, which fact makes them prone to stress the freedom, fealty and moderation required of management.15 Demanding latitude to manoeuvre, they approach conflicts as opportunities to negotiate a better outcome for the king and his loyal supporters. The spiritually-minded royal council, focused on the future, models the theological virtue of hope for treasure in heaven, and finds the mark of catholicity most amenable for the latitude that it affords in the adiaphora. Clearly, this moral vision of unqualified human corruption, when coupled with the unqualifiedly allegiant metaphysic of mercy, provides confidence that, when coupled with the instrumentality of the measuring mind, accentuates the role of the creative will. Just as the priesthood judges the cosmos as only qualifiedly benevolent, so also does the office judge sinful human nature qualifiedly incorrigible so that by cultivating faithfulness sainthood become possible. As a complementarian, the bishop emphasizes duty. For functions occur amid a complex set of roles, each teaching truths that fit together. His preferred conflict resolution strategy is not so much negotiation, but co-operation among estates submitting to competent authority. Such a moral vision turns on authority that

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convicts, on sanctity that inspires and on wisdom that teaches the conscience. Steeped in patristic wisdom, it models the theological virtue of faith in God’s self-revelation in Christ through the apostles. Such a vision highlights the qualitative mind that discerns parts and the whole as more than their sum. By contrast, the tropological monastery adopts a positive view of human nature. From their enclave of righteousness, coenobites affirm the image of God in everyone; and, given their environment of mutuality, believe that moral perfection is possible. For the monastery affirms communal oneness, denouncing favouritism for justice and peace with God, oneself and others. The preferred conflict resolution strategy here is consensus, even if achieved through fission or scapegoating. This kind of morality is surely affective, contrasting the righteous inter- and intra-relational heart over against a hostile cosmos. The anagogical overking-in-battle is just as unsure of human nature as he is of the cosmos. As an isolate, he takes each person and situation case by case. Some are good; others are evil; and some switch. Embattled, he values courage as the crucible of virtue with the winner taking all: victory and life. Jubilation is the spiritual state most desired; and, in the dread spirit of ‘touch not the Lord’s anointed’, the aura of holiness comes with thriving in deadly combat.

Bede’s Anglian Ideal, Classical Anglicanism’s Ideal and Paradigm Shifts in the Anglosphere Bede’s vision of holism provides a template that clarifies the nature of subsequent paradigm shifts that have altered and are altering Christian experience in the Anglosphere in order to gain insight into the Anglican, and generally Christian, experience of woundedness therein over time. Unlike many simplified ecclesial identities, Bede’s Anglian Orthodoxy and classical Anglicanism project the holistic scope of salvation, sharing similar elements articulated differently. In Anglicanism, scripture plays the role of Bede’s royal council, namely, the establishment of vernacular Christian culture. But although Anglicanism places scripture over tradition, Bede submitted the royal council to priestly guidance. Anglicanism’s next priority of reason, carrying the freight of coherentist logic, humane reasonableness and moral imperative, has a corollary in Bede’s interest in monasteries. For both resist the establishment’s expedient disregard for the dignity of the social other. With the dissolution of the monasteries under King Henry VIII, this role has fallen to concerned laity without mandatory vows of submission to sacerdotal teaching or to the fully egalitarian discipline of celibacy.16 On the third matter

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of tradition, Anglicanism and Bede are furthest apart. While both connect the magisterium with Rome and the eastern patriarchates, Anglicanism places episcopacy-and-tradition loyally under the monarch, and even ranks tradition third after reasonableness. Bede, rather, would place the priesthood above the monarchy and the monastery. Finally, the role played by the overking-in-battle in Anglian Orthodoxy is assumed in Anglicanism’s support for the Elizabethan navy that defeated King Philip’s armada. John Wesley further augments the life-and-death anagogical aspect of Anglicanism by turning the three-legged stool into a quadrilateral, adding experience (triumph over the fear of death) to scripture, reason and tradition. Now with this comparison in mind, one may observe how the intervening series of perspectival adjustments between Bede and the present shows how Anglicanism’s natural habitat, the Anglosphere, has been moving full circle. It began with Anglo-Saxon nature religion, has passed through multiple forms of Christianity, and is now returning to nature religion in a far more articulate form. For, the Anglosphere has encountered, accentuated and then demoted the import of the metaphysical priestly vision and the epistemological kingly vision. It is now reconsidering the prophetic axiological vision, and is making its way toward the apocalyptic autocracy of Hobbes’ Leviathan.17 In this reading of history, the days of Kings Æthelberht and Edwin serve as ground zero, a point of departure by which to characterize what has followed. The Anglian culture then indwelt the apocalypticism of the warlike nature religion of Wodenism. Such people aspired to Valhalla, a realm full of heroic warriors. Battle was a way of life—in part for the sheer pleasure of spectacle—and the fittest or the luckiest survived. For this culture prized survival in conquest, that is, it emphasized the body and the senses without an awareness of divine majesty or human dignity. Into this warlike milieu, Mediterranean priests brought metaphysical enlightenment that transcends the undifferentiated consciousness of physicalism, Celtic abbots the notion of monastic devotional life, and Hebrew kings provided a model of godly governance and defence. Bede tells of kings who honoured the priesthood during their rule and even sought retirement in the monastery afterward. He shows that many voices were heard during the golden age of orthodox worship under Theodore of Canterbury.18 Bede’s golden age of the Anglians was seriously interrupted by the sustained invasion of Scandinavian Wodenists. It eventually ended when assertive clericalism entered from the Continent after King William I’s invasive victory. Equilibrium in the Anglosphere would not be lost as the metaphysical era of priestly dominance prevailed and culminated in the High Middle Ages.

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This age produced cathedrals as grand as castles housing kings. With the conviction rationality of priests prominent, epistemology and axiology took their cue from the dominant and sacerdotal metaphysic.19 Knowledge of the empirical world had to suit the priesthood; and clerics shaped moral vision and social structure. Thus, understanding came by revelation authoritatively interpreted; and human nature was judged corrupt yet corrigible, even if corrigible in purgatory. In Early Modernity, King Henry, the first Anglican, upsets inherited relations between English kings-in-council and the priesthood by removing his hand out from under the formed episcopal conscience, mutating the magisterium by forcing an oath of fealty and muting the monastery through dissolution. The epistemological era of kings-in-council, and Anglicanism, dawned. The default mode of reasoning is now instrumental rationality, animated by the correspondence theory that directs the measuring mind of rational empiricism. The Ecclesiastical Revolution (less neutrally ‘the Reformation’), the Philosophical Revolution (less neutrally ‘the Enlightenment’), the Scientific Revolution and the Industrial Revolution all reject the indicative mood of ‘Thus says the Lord’, which guides the allegorical priestly metaphysic. Executive government and the business interests of individualist networks clearly take precedence, creating Modernity. During the era of kings-in-council, the conciliar element trumps and even replaces the king. Economic interests come to drive strategic thinking in order to develop useful relationships and produce technologies that harness the potential of the natural and social worlds. Such instrumental, forward-looking rationality adopts an evolutionary ethos in the optative mood. For the hope of reward motivates this way of being, which discovers new partnerships, capabilities, lands and opportunities. As kings in Bede’s day discovered long before, the materials that record scripture and patristic commentary also record land titles, tax revenues and business transactions. Consequent upon the new accent on epistemology and empiricism, King Henry’s Anglicans come to view tradition as a looser tie to precedent, as though it were a kind of case law subject to reinterpretation for future application, rather than a lens settled by holy synod through which the episcopate perceives the world in age-old iconic terms. The Puritans of this early modern age openly gainsay the priestly prerogative to custody of doctrine by supporting scriptural empiricism against allegorical sacramentalism, dividing magistracy from the magisterium. By contrast, Bede’s account of the Council of Whitby shows how, for him, allegorical realism is definitive.20 Christian culture must not celebrate the resurrection during the dark phase of the moon because it implies spiritual blindness.

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In time, observation of the vast, intricate and mechanistic nature of the cosmos leaves many in the Anglosphere with an impersonal view of the universe that supports the aspiration for each household to become a middle class monarchy pursuing self-determination. The political class explores the physical world and foreign lands, while kings remain custodians of Christian culture for a time. Yet, in this negotiated vision of the Christian life, the trickle-down effect of individualism eventually inspires each person equipped with a general education to feel like a self-determining monarch with the freedom to adapt scripture and even to adopt non-Christian identities. By now, society is no longer experienced as a hierarchical group shaped by a common conscience, but as a layering of networks with varying degrees of loyalty.21 Cosmic alienation eventually crystalizes into righteous indignation over the grasping capitalism of the political class. If the civil war of Western Christendom, the Thirty Years War, convinced Europe to abandon priests as opinion leaders, then civil wars of Eastern and Western Christendom (including the American, French and Russian Revolutions, and the First World War) had the same effect on symbolic royal authority also. The monarchs who remain, primarily in the northwest, hardly serve as custodians of Christian culture on any level. Anglospheric societies shift away from an epistemological orientation in the optative mood of discovery toward an axiological one in the imperative mood of rights. The default position of this axiological era of propheticism is utopian, which affirms the goodness and affectivity of human nature, including that of outsiders. Lay parliamentary interest in evermore-egalitarian social movements and legislation replaces the Christian egalitarianism of celibate English coenobia. There can be no doubt that the pietistic Wesleyans abet this transition also. For the evermore-simplified vision of the Salvation Army has taken the view that populist preaching, good works and affective spirituality overrule the need for the sacramental ministry with its hierarchy. Two centuries on, this propheticism has morphed into imperatives against discernment by labelling it discrimination. For some may see human rights tribunals, in essence, as Secular Humanist inquisitions determining blasphemy against humanity in any one of its enduring manifestations in live human persons—especially those of formerly liminal status. As the Anglosphere reorganizes, the egalitarian movement is becoming ever more thorough, moving from abolition and universal male suffrage, to female suffrage and occupancy of high office, to civil rights and affirmative action movements for ethnic minorities, and eventually, to embracing alternative sexual identities. Each movement shares the same sentiment, namely, that concessions validating a formerly liminal person’s self-concept are reasonable.

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Utopianism now leads the Anglosphere to view the world as even more hostile, or at least opaque, so that the Anglosphere is becoming like the monastic enclave of Bede’s day. Interestingly, geography supports this enclavism. For Europe could be seen as a peninsula on the end of the putative social wilderness of Asia; and Britain, North America, Australia and New Zealand are like the Isle of Lindisfarne on a larger scale. All the while that propheticism has been rising, the apocalyptic era of physicalism poses a challenge even now. For the sentimental ethos of egalitarianism is becoming qualified on the physical plane by genetic and erotic, psychiatric and bioethical themes. Genetics has factored significantly in the push to complete the egalitarian vision. For once homoeroticism is judged inborn, it must be celebrated until it can be ignored. A physicalist ethos has also grasped the women’s liberation movement begun in contest with the individualist network of businessmen. Now feminism seeks a physicalist goal: to end all shame related to sexuality, even public sexuality. Once seeking individualist (economic) goals, feminist culture now imposes a naturist, even erotic ethic (evident in the nearly universal practice in the West of wearing once skin-tight undergarments as outerwear on the street, at school and at work). Feminists’ physicalist argumentation also appears in support of legal prostitution, now deemed necessary for physical protection. In addition, universal moral responsibility so much prized by egalitarianism is now commonly qualified on physicalist grounds, such as drunkenness, chemical dependency or imbalance, or any number of psychiatric challenges, such as chronic depression, OCD or ADHD, correctable by consuming physical substances. In Bede’s day, a shorter life expectancy brought physical jeopardy closer to daily life for everyone, and his Angles accepted this fact as divine judgement to be braved with the courageous joy that exults in eternal salvation beyond. Now physicalists expect salvation from disability and disease; and the compassion on offer is legalized lethal injection. In such times as these, the anagogical forms of Christian faith emphasizing miracles, such as Pentecostalism, appeal. For the culture yearns for the physical dimension of salvation. Such indicators suggest a drift from the sentimental, relational ethos of egalitarianism towards the physicalism of Bede’s northern ancestors, albeit articulated in more erudite ways through intervening cultural developments.

A Bedan Response to the Current Situation The Anglosphere, then, is no longer an environment conducive to the holistically-minded civilisation of Christian Antiquity. Classical Anglicanism’s trouble, in light of Bede’s Anglian Orthodoxy, is its reordering of relations

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between the cosmically-allegiant roles in favour of the king-in-council so that the cardinal virtue of moderation usurps inherited wisdom. Other trouble comes from silencing the party preaching justice in Christian idiom. For this voice, now speaking in non-Christian idiom, grasps an instructional (positive) role rather than rightly taking an admonitory (negative) role. Rather than checking priestly pride and royal greed, it undermines the very cosmic allegiance upon which these institutions operate, causing the loss of their benefits. The cosmos becomes hostile when God becomes non-existent, mean-spirited or impotent, and the only hope left resides in the assertion of mandatory human kindness. With offices that sponsor Christian faith and hope failing, nature and human nature could become as wild again as the world of apocalyptic Wodenism. By the framework presented here, Ephraim Radner and his colleagues at Wycliffe College, Toronto, are attempting holism according to classical Anglicanism’s priorities. The college’s leading ethos is scripture-orientation as observed in the motto Verbum Domini Manet (God’s Word endures). The attendant monarchial association appears in the Wycliffe Hymn: King of love, O Christ, we crown thee Lord of thought and Lord of will; Each demand of thy high challenge dedicated to fulfil, We with thee by grace co-workers, till, where human foot hath trod, Peoples, kings, dominions, races, own the empire of our God.

In this adaptive missionary spirit, the college embraces evolutionary creationism as irreversibly sine qua non for negotiating cultural traction in Queen Elizabeth II’s Anglosphere. Reasonableness as prophetic affectivity appears in the college’s support for female ordination as ethical imperative. Finally, the college shows itself drawn to tradition in its chapel’s liturgies and in its bond with Toronto’s Catholic diocesan seminary. As an attempt at holism, the motive here is honourable from a Bedan viewpoint; however, Bede would lament the (prophetic) egalitarian sentimentalism and (kingly/ducal) self-determinism that undermine the iconic, allegorical nature of faith and priesthood. To the current situation, Bede might well respond with the same nuanced appreciation of St. Aidan’s egalitarian ethos. Worried about his people’s rush for the egalitarian institution of his day, the monastery, as though no other voice were needed, he remarks: ‘What will be the end hereof, the next age will show’.22 Hopefully, Anglicans observing the devolution of their version of holism will neither abet it, nor fret about it. Though feeling like isolates in the evolving Anglosphere, they would do well to overcome fear of spiritual and institutional death, by trusting Jesus Christ, the fullness of life. Hopefully,

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Bede’s holistic heuristic will enable Christians of every sort to recognize one another as those attempting, however misguidedly, to experience some aspect of Christ’s salvation of the human condition.

Notes 1. Andrew Adkins. For the Love of Right Angles: Bedan Archetypes of Ethnicity as a Mystical Map of the Human Condition Integrated in the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church (PhD dissertation, USMC, Toronto, 2014), xvi–xxv. An inspiration for this model comes from Mary Douglas, Natural Symbols (New York: Vintage, 1970) and Cultural Theory (Boulder: Westview, 1990) by Michael Thompson, Ron Ellis and Aaron Wildavsky. Wesley Kort, Bound to Differ: The Dynamics of Theological Discourse (University Park: Pennsylvania State, 1992) identifies prophetic, priestly and sapiential factors necessary to theology that are evident in the Evangelical focus on the inscrutable God, the Catholic interest in accessible means of grace, and the liberal focus on reasonable concern for humane treatment of the weak. What Kort’s labels ‘prophetic’, I call ‘royal’ for its focus on God as king of all; and what he labels ‘sapiential’, I call ‘prophetic’ in an ethical rather than an eschatological sense. 2. An excellent rendition occurs in Bertram Colgrave and R. A. B. Mynors, eds., Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People (Oxford: Clarendon, 1969). 3. HE 4.28. 4. Ibid. 3.15–17. 5. Ibid. 4.29 6. Ibid. 3.2, 9–13, 24. 7. Ibid. 2.13. 8. Ibid. 4.17. 9. While abbot and embattled overking are mentioned here as alienated stances, one might also view prophethood similarly since this office embodies cosmic alienation in its eschatogical and its ethical forms. Elijah the eschatological prophet is similar to a king-in-battle engaging in miraculous conflict on Mt. Carmel; and Micah the ethical prophet corrects the king who has behaved in ways that alienate people through injustice. 10. HE 3.14. 11. Ibid. 3.25, 5.19. 12. See Adkins, 149; HE 3.25. 13. HE 3.4, 25. 14. Ibid. 2.9,12, 16. 15. Inspired by Jonathan Haidt’s The Righteous Mind (New York: Pantheon 2012), I link royal authority with the moral union of liberty and loyalty. Ethan Shagan, also makes this connection. See Adkins, 136–40; and Ethan H. Shagan, The Rule of Moderation: Violence, Religion and the Politics of Restraint in Early Modern England (Cambridge University Press, 2011), 337–40. 16. The sexual bond at the core of lay families would make them petty kingdoms of private fealty. Truly egalitarian sexual practice would be indiscriminate, and therefore, adulterous.

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17. As a caveat, one observes that despite the dominance of each hermeneutic in succession, support for previous emphases remains because each prioritizes an irreducible factor of the human condition. 18. HE 4.1–3. 19. For types of rationality, see David D’Avray, Rationalities in History: A Weberian Essay in Comparison (Cambridge, 2010). 20. HE 5.21. 21. David Neelands points out that while Calvin affirmed individual consciences in adiaphora, Hooker affirmed royal discretion. Shagan observes that too much private biblical knowledge posed a problem for early moderns when it created either superstitious or intransigent disobedience in adiaphora. For magistrates were mandated to rule by enforceable moderation. While Hooker insisted upon legal limits to royal authority, King Henry had imposed his moderating will by executing Protestants and Catholics without articulating just cause. See David Neelands, ‘Hooker on Scripture, Reason, and “Tradition”’ in Arthur Stephen McGrade, ed., Richard Hooker and the Construction of Christian Community, Vol. 165: Medieval & Renaissance Texts & Studies (Tempe, AZ: Arizona State University, 1997), 92; and Shagan, 80–7, 145. 22. HE 5.23.

The Reform Program of John Wyclif’s Sermons SEAN A. OTTO

John Wyclif was—and to some extent still is—a polarizing figure. Traditional Protestant historiography has seen him as an anti-Catholic hero, while Roman Catholic historiography has seen him as a damnable heresiarch. This picture has been challenged in the last century, and a recovery of John Wyclif, the late medieval theologian is well under way.1 The traditional mythology still clings to Wyclif, however, and has obscured our understanding of his reform program, which was not at all that of the sixteenth-century reformers. Two essential characteristics of Wyclif’s reform program, as evidenced in his Latin sermons, will be highlighted here: the conservative nature of his theology and the highly pastoral nature of his conception of reform. Taken together, these two key aspects of Wyclif’s program for reform make clear that his was not a desire to break with either the catholic or the local church, but to realign these with the teaching and faith of the true church as outlined in the perfect law of Christ, the law of love.

Sermon Cycles The importance of preaching to Wyclif’s reform program can hardly be exaggerated. He states on numerous occasions that preaching is the most important duty of those in holy orders, and says also that it is above performing the eucharist.2 The sheer size of his sermon corpus is an indication of preaching’s importance to Wyclif; his extant sermons form three cycles and two miscellaneous collections, totalling well over two hundred sermons. The former will be addressed here. These were almost certainly redacted by Wyclif himself during his forced retirement from Oxford between 1381 and his death in 1384, while the two miscellaneous collections are likely the work

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of another editor.3 Further, while the miscellaneous collections reflect aspects of Wyclif’s reform program, the sermons collected by Wyclif into model sermon collections reflect more fully and closely a sort of Wycliffite preaching program. These sermon cycles were clearly designed for the use of other preachers. They cover the lections, both gospel and epistle, for the entire church year as well as for saints’ days; and there are telling asides in several sermons, which instruct the user to expand on topics in a way suitable to the audience.4 The implications of this are profound. If these sermons form model collections for the use of other preachers, they are meant to supply material for the instruction of congregations; and if they are meant to form a basis for parochial instruction, their contents become an indication of what it is that Wyclif thought was important and appropriate for such instruction, and thus the basis for grassroots reform. In fact, this is Wyclif’s stated purpose for the sermons: Therefore, in order that the opinion of God might be more clear, and its useless servant more [easily] excused, it seems that in this retirement from the schools which we are enjoying, and in particular since we are solicitous for the edification of the Church at the end of our days, rough sermons to the people should be gathered together, so that if those things consonant with the sound doctrine of Christ might be more known, also those things which will turn [people] away from catholic truth might be avoided.5

When we examine these sermons, there is little doubt that there is much that is controversial; but if we look closely, there is little room to doubt either the conservative nature of Wyclif’s reforming agenda, or his sincere concern for the salvation of the laity from the dangerous novelties of his opponents.

Sermon Content The conservative nature of Wyclif’s reform program is well illustrated by the nature of his Sermones de sanctis. Here, Wyclif has eliminated a large number of saints from the calendar, abbreviating his proprium sanctorum to include only biblical saints, with the exception of three. These extra-biblical saints are Pope Sylvester, Martin of Tours and Thomas Becket.6 Sermons for the communale sanctorum (sermons on common readings for martyrs, confessors, and so on) have also been kept; although, as Anne Hudson has observed, it stretches the imagination almost beyond its limits to discern whom Wyclif might have intended to honour with these sermons.7 The inclusion of Sylvester in the proprium is particularly notable, since it was he who received the Donation of Constantine, the authenticity of which document Wyclif never doubted, and

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which he seems to have loathed with every fibre of his being. In this sermon, Wyclif never denies that Sylvester is a saint, but he makes it very clear that he sinned in accepting Constantine’s donation. He also makes the point that the apostles sinned as well—for instance when Peter denied Christ—so we should not think that saints are sinless.8 The sermon for Martin’s translation hardly mentions Martin at all, using him only as an example of how the mendicants ought to live. For Martin gave half his cloak to a poor man, and the mendicants (who Wyclif says really own the things they possess and use) ought to do the same—especially since they have so much more than Martin possessed.9 The sermon for Thomas Becket demonstrates the same concern with how saints can act as exemplars of the Christian life. Here, Wyclif’s emphasis is on how the believer should follow Becket’s selfless act of laying down his life for a just cause, and how they should avoid Becket’s sins, such as his holding of secular office.10 All three of these sermons demonstrate a real concern with how the saints ought to be examples of the proper imitation of Christ, and how innovations (the creation of the mendicant orders, the endowment of the church and the use of clergymen in secular office) should be avoided, as these all distract and detract from the imitation of Christ and the following of his law of love.

Sermons and Reform Wyclif’s preaching conforms in many ways to the wider reform movements of the Middle Ages. Much of late medieval reform sprang from the efforts of the Fourth Lateran Council (which legislated annual confession and reception of the eucharist), and these reforming goals were furthered by local legislation in the years following the council. Especially important in England were the pastoral syllabi of Robert Grosseteste and John Peckham.11 Wyclif’s preaching conforms to the strictures of ecclesiastical legislation, covering—as it does—all the topics listed in these syllabi. It is likely, however, that the work of Archbishop Thorseby of York (d. 1373), Wyclif’s ecclesiastical superior before the latter removed to the diocese of Lincoln, was more influential than the earlier ecclesiastical legislation of Grosseteste and Peckham, although the legislation of the Fourth Lateran Council was quite influential in its own way, as Wyclif denounced it on several occasions.12 While the exact relationship between Thoresby and Wyclif is not at all clear, Wyclif was a northerner and fell under Thorseby’s jurisdiction, for it seems that Wyclif was priested in York before 1361.13 Both Wyclif’s sermons and the famous Lay Folk’s Catechism (issued 1357), an English translation of a set of instructions written originally by Thoresby in Latin and translated at his behest, draw on the same traditions of pastoral care.14

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It is not unreasonable to think that Wyclif knew of the Catechism, or at least the Latin instructions that lay behind it, for the two most certainly drew on the same traditions. In his sermons on the spiritual and corporal works of mercy, Wyclif quotes a pair of related verses, both of which are also used in the Lay Folk’s Catechism, and in the exact same context as well. These are ‘Visito, poto, cibo, redimo, tego, colligo, condo’ (visit, give drink, feed, redeem, clothe, take in, bury)15 and ‘Doc. consul. castig. solare, remitte, fer. ora’[sic] (teach, counsel, reprove, console, forgive, suffer, pray).16 These are simple pneumonic verses for memorizing the two lists, and both Wyclif and the Catechism introduce them as such, following in the footsteps of Thomas Aquinas and Guido of Monte Rochen,17 which is a strong indication of a common tradition of catechetical instruction in the works of mercy. The Lay Folk’s Catechism aims to provide the basics of Christian doctrine in English for a largely lay audience, these basics having been outlined in a provincial council at York in 1357. Its main purposes were to ensure uniformity in the faith, by reducing uncertainty about its contents, to preclude ignorance of the foundations of the faith, and to recall to orthodoxy those who had fallen into error because of their misunderstanding.18

A clearer encapsulation of Wyclif’s own reform program is hard to imagine, placing him firmly in a long tradition of theologians concerned with the pastoral needs of the laity. A closer look at the material for Wyclif’s preaching program will elucidate this.

Catechetical Purpose The main aim of Wyclif’s sermons is clearly catechetical. In these collections, we have a comprehensive overview of the basics of Christian doctrine, from such basic elements as the Apostles’ Creed and the Our Father to more advanced matters such as the nature of the eucharist. Wyclif’s sermons cover all of the material required by the various pastoral syllabi legislated for the Church in England, and do so assiduously. For instance, his preaching on the Decalogue is more extensive than that of most preachers, including a series of ten sermons, each dealing with a single commandment.19 His preaching on the Lord’s Prayer and the Creed is likewise comprehensive: he covers the prayer in three sermons,20 and the Creed receives full treatment in another.21 His preaching on more minor topics, and ones which would probably seem less important to his later Protestant admirers, are likewise treated very fully: two sermons cover the five bodily senses,22 and the corporal and spiritual works of mercy each receive treatment in separate sermons.23 The only topics

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that do not receive any systematic treatment are the sacraments, and the virtues and vices. This does not mean that Wyclif does not treat these matters— far from it.24 Rather, he is less systematic because, in the case of the virtues and vices, he allows the biblical material from which he is composing his sermons to dictate the form which they will take; something like an organic process of association is at work in these sermons. The vast majority of Wyclif’s efforts in preaching on vice and virtue are spent upholding Christ and the apostles as models of virtue, and the friars and ecclesiastical hierarchs as models of vice. As for the sacraments, it is much the same. The biblical material is again what forms the basis for discussion, and this is a large part of the reason why the sacraments of orders, extreme unction, confirmation and marriage receive so little attention. The other reason is that these sacraments were not, in Wyclif’s time, particularly controversial—even that of orders.25 Wyclif is much more wont to denounce clerical abuses than the clerical estate as such. Baptism receives more time and effort, but Wyclif is not at all controversial in these discussions: he is rather broad in his teaching, allowing numerous forms of baptism and that laymen and women are fully able to perform this most necessary of sacraments.26 Much more time is spent on the controversial issues of penance and the eucharist. The first of these is seen as a tool used by the friars to extract money and sexual favours from the populace; but its real and proper functioning is internal. The essential element of the sacrament is contrition, without which the indulgences of the friars and prelates, or the myriad penances imposed by confessors, are absolutely useless. Here we must be careful though, for Wyclif is ambiguous when it comes to confession, stating at times that it is useless and unnecessary, and at others that it is good and proper and helpful. His final position is somewhat difficult to determine, but what seems to be most important is the biblical basis for church practice, and the reform of abuses associated with confession and penance. He is especially concerned about those of the friars and the Fourth Lateran Council, which added obligatory yearly confession, a thing of human invention, to the perfect law of Christ expressed in the gospel. Once again, Wyclif is denouncing the introduction of novel teaching into the Church. For Wyclif, the true conservative, fights against the development of false doctrine.27

The Eucharist The eucharist is treated in similar terms, although Wyclif’s position here is much clearer. The most important issue for Wyclif was the doctrine of transubstantiation. This doctrine he held to be the most pernicious of lies

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perpetuated by the malice and greed of friars and bishops, who wanted to be seen as cleverer than other men; who wanted to retain ill-gotten gains received from the perpetuation of this falsehood; and who were content to see the faithful mired in idolatry, so long as their own money, power and fame were left untouched.28 His reasons to view transubstantiation as false doctrine are multiple. First and foremost, the doctrine would make Jesus Christ a liar. Since he said hoc est corpus meum whilst holding bread in his hand, it must either be that he was speaking figuratively, or that he was lying, since the loaf of bread in the Saviour’s hand was clearly still bread when he broke it.29 Moreover, the doctrine would mean the undoing of the universe, since to annihilate a single iota of creation would be to annihilate the corresponding universal in the mind of God, and thus to undo the whole of existence including the Creator.30 There are other arguments as well, including a rather strange argument relating to temporal atomism;31 but—suffice it to say—in the main, Wyclif’s arguments are biblical and logical. Two further points about the eucharist ought to be stressed. First, the doctrine of the eucharist had not been settled in Wyclif’s day, and so it is important to remember that he was not arguing against an established dogma.32 And second, for Wyclif—and it is not possible to stress this too strongly—it is transubstantiation that is the novelty; and the morderni, the modern theologians, are those who have strayed from the straight and narrow path with their innovations. When Wyclif read the gospels and the fathers, he did not find there the doctrine of transubstantiation, he did not even find the word! He found rather a doctrine of real presence, but not one that required the annihilation of any substance or the existence of an accident without its subject.33 Once again, we see how conservative Wyclif’s reform program is. Reform is necessary for Wyclif because of the dangerous novelties introduced into the church by her enemies; reform is necessary because believers (theologians among the friars and hierarchs in particular) have strayed from the ways of Christ and his apostles.

The Lord’s Prayer One should not, however, be left with the impression that Wyclif’s program was purely negative. There is plenty of negativity—for Wyclif had so much to be negative about, and comes across most often as a curmudgeon—but that is not the whole picture. Let us take, for example, his preaching on the Lord’s Prayer. Here is Wyclif at his most uplifting and pastoral.34 After division of the prayer into seven petitions, Wyclif begins by noting that we say ‘Our Father’ and not ‘My Father’. He remarks:

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Since we are all brothers, we ought to love one another; and this is the reason why it is better said ‘Our Father’ rather than ‘Lord God’ or another name of God not so well chosen.35

This emphasis on love in the opening address of the prayer is characteristic of Wyclif’s interpretation in the Sermones, and undergirds the rest of his exposition. Each of the petitions is dealt with in turn, emphasizing the perfection of the prayer, which prays that the Father’s holiness might shine in us, that his kingdom might be fulfilled, that our will might conform to his, and that all of our bodily and spiritual needs might be met: bread for physical strength, forgiveness of sins to lighten our burden, protection from snares along the way by being freed from temptation and the removal of stumbling blocks by being freed from evil. Just as he opened his discussion of the Lord’s Prayer by grounding it in love, so Wyclif ends his discussion. This form of prayer beckons us to love, which must abound more and more; and since love has two parts, love of God and love of neighbour, we must love each of these more and more. In fact, we are obligated to increase in love, and if we stand still or backslide in this progression, we sin.36 Love is foundational to Wyclif’s understanding of the Lord’s Prayer and the Christian life in general: it is the beginning, the means and the end.37

Thomas Brinton and John Wyclif A brief comparative study of the preaching of Wyclif and Thomas Brinton highlights the conservative nature of Wyclif’s reform program. Brinton (c.1320– 1389), bishop of Rochester from January 1372, consecrated 20 March 1373, and a member of the Benedictine Order, was a staunch opponent of Wyclif. Educated at both Cambridge and Oxford, Brinton was also a papal penitentiary from at least 31 December 1362 and spent much time at the papal court of both Urban V and Gregory XI, the latter of whom issued bulls against Wyclif in 1377. Brinton was among those at the Blackfriars’ Council of 1382, which sat in condemnation of Wyclif’s ideas.38 Brinton is best known to us through his sermons. In many of these, especially those dealing with the sacraments, Brinton opposes what he perceives to be Wyclif’s teachings. Yet at the same time, there is much common ground between the two bitter enemies, which is not surprising, given their common education in the medieval English university, their common religious culture and milieu and their common reforming convictions. The two men represent two strands of reform in late medieval England. Brinton was a reforming bishop, ensconced within the ecclesiastical hierarchy, the members of which he sought to improve for the betterment of the church as a whole; and Wyclif was a magister sacrae paginae

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(a master of the sacred page), a university-trained theologian who believed wholeheartedly that it was his bounden duty to criticize, castigate and correct the hierarchy, or any other part of the church for that matter, when he saw it going astray. At base, the two men sought the same thing: reform of the church in teaching and morals. But they disagreed on what this reform should look like in a few specific—albeit extremely important—areas. A good place to begin is to compare Wyclif and Brinton’s respective preaching for Good Friday, where there are strong similarities in outlook.39 Here both men use a traditional topos of medieval preaching when they juxtapose Jesus on the cross and the seven deadly sins. Wyclif sets the seven last words, the seven deadly sins and the seven signs of death in opposition in a complex rhetorical structure for one of his Good Friday sermons: There are, however, seven words which Christ spoke from the teaching chair of the cross (in cathedra crucis) which, when subtly understood, are very powerful against the seven deadly sins. It is proper to note, moreover, these seven words and the seven properties following bodily death. And then keeping these according to the mystical sense will profit us in the annual memorial of Christ’s death.40

Wyclif begins his discussion with pride, the root of all sin, which is opposed by the words, ‘Father, into your hands I commend my spirit’ (Luke 23:46), and compared with the stiffness of a corpse: Nothing puts stiff disobedience and pride to flight better than to consider humbly how God is omnipotent, the highest judge, whose notice nothing can escape, such that by serving him and by obeying his commandments, by enduring injuries, vengeance might be brought about by his judgment. Thus did Christ for our instruction suffer the scourge, reproach, and mockery.41

Each of the other deadly sins is treated in turn in the same manner. One of the seven last words is set in opposition to a deadly sin; which sin is linked, in turn, to a sign of bodily death, the remembrance of which is enjoined to the audience to ward off sin. Brinton has much the same sort of organizing structure in a sermon for Good Friday, in which he opposes the wounds Christ endured on the cross to the seven deadly sins: For if we swell with pride, let us consider Christ humbled and despised; indeed, he humbled himself until death, death moreover on a cross. If we are moved to anger and envy, not loving our neighbour or also our enemy, let us consider Christ praying for his crucifiers. If we delight in gluttony and pleasures, let us consider Christ who drank gall and vinegar. If we are charmed by feasts and clothing, let us consider Christ hanging naked on the bare cross.42

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Wyclif had another similar construction, making the seven effusions of Christ’s blood the remedy for the seven deadly sins in his De civili dominio.43 Although Wyclif shows more concern to explain the nature of the deadly sins, with little meditation on the last words or the wounds of Christ, there seems little doubt that the two men, so opposed in other areas, can only agree as to the seriousness of sin and the usefulness of this topos in explaining to their congregations a manner by which to avoid it. The cross looms large over the hamartiology of both men, and is the means to overcome sin. The two were likewise strong advocates for reform. Brinton was no less keen than Wyclif to see the church and her members reformed in morals and doctrine. Several of his sermons are concerned with the behaviour of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, calling on bishops, the shepherds of the church, to preach and to fulfill their other duties. His constant refrain is that bishops need to preach and teach.44 The greed of prelates, according to Brinton, has led to the corruption of the church and the neglect of her offices and duties: Wherefore those who, as pillars, ought to support the Church on their shoulders, and to give their lives for defense of these liberties, although they see Christ daily crucified in his members, the innocent to be condemned, poor ecclesiastics to be robbed of their benefices and the freedom of the Church to be profaned to such a degree that the Holy Church of God is nowadays in greater servitude than it was under Pharaoh, when he had no knowledge of the divine law, nevertheless in all these things, they reveal themselves to be hirelings and not shepherds. And the reason for this is, according to report, either because they covet great offices, or aspire to be translated to richer bishoprics.45

Although his statement is to some extent hyperbole, Brinton clearly views avarice as a major problem in the church of his day in much the same way as Wyclif. The allusion to the parable of the Good Shepherd (John 10:11–18) demonstrates the fundamental agreement between the two men as to one of the basic problems facing the church of their day. In the parable, Jesus says that the Good Shepherd gives up his life for his sheep, but that the hireling (knowing the sheep are not his) will flee when the wolf attacks, leaving the sheep to be scattered and lost. At heart, Wyclif and Brinton are concerned about the same thing (the care of the sheep, the cure of souls) and they both see the office of shepherd as one neglected in the late medieval English church. While the two can be seen to have a similar outlook on hamartiology, and while both were keen on reforming the church and caring for the faithful, there are profound differences in other areas, particularly in matters of sacramentology. For instance, Brinton argues that solemn public confession ‘received

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by prelate and church’ (a prelato et ecclesia) is more meritorious than many hidden confessions; but, despite Brinton’s insistence on humility of heart,46 a sentiment with which Wyclif could only agree, the difference between the two is clear. Key to Brinton’s position is the role of the priest and the church; whereas Wyclif came to reject this role, or at least its strict necessity, placing emphasis almost entirely on inner contrition and confession to God who alone can forgive sin.47 The disagreement is demonstrated even more clearly in their respective positions on excommunication. Brinton includes an exemplum in one of his sermons relating the story of a certain sailor named Roger, who was known to Brinton while he was studying at Cambridge.48 Roger had been excommunicated by the chancellor for his ‘manifest wickednesses and disobediences’.49 Overtaken by despair at his excommunication, Roger cried out in pain during a long session of drinking with his companions, who asked for the reason behind the outburst. When informed of Roger’s excommunication, they urged him to return with them to Cambridge to receive the chancellor’s absolution. Along the way, Roger attempted to drown himself, but was restrained by his shipmates. Sadly, he tricked them into letting him help man the oars, and finally succeeded in drowning himself ‘by the inspiration of the devil’.50 Three days after the event, Brinton himself saw the body, which ‘in life … was handsome and noble, yet in death I saw it black and loathsome’.51 The difference is much more than stylistic, for while Wyclif only very occasionally uses exempla,52 he also (and more importantly) had very serious reservations about the power to excommunicate. It is unlikely that he would lend credence to such a story, since he did not believe that the pope—let alone a university chancellor—had the power to excommunicate anyone who had not already been excommunicated by God.53 Their disagreement over the nature of the eucharist was likewise profound. While Brinton does not often discuss the eucharist, when he does, he describes the presence of Christ in the host in the most fleshly (Wyclif might say grossly materialist) of terms: [A]s far as sight, smell, taste, and touch it seems to be bread, but as far as hearing through faith, by the word of Christ it is the very same body which was assumed from the virgin, suffered on the cross, rose, and ascended.54

The bodily senses are enlisted only so that they can be shown to be fooled by the marvel of the eucharist. Only hearing aided by faith can understand the true nature of the consecrated host, which is not the bread that it seems to be, but is the very same body of the Saviour that was flesh and blood, died, rose and ascended. In another sermon, he makes it clear that it is erroneous to say that the bread remains after consecration.55 This is where the two differ

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53

most profoundly: Wyclif, by the end of his life, would not accept that the host after consecration did not remain bread. He utterly rejected the idea that the consecrated host was ydemptice (identically) the body of Christ. Such doctrine was, in Wyclif’s opinion, the most dangerous of false teachings, since it led the laity into idolatry and endangered their immortal souls.56 On this issue, the two men’s views were fundamentally incompatible. These and other disagreements about the church’s sacraments come together in a passage from one of Brinton’s sermons for the Feast of Mary Magdalene (recycled also in an Easter sermon) where he attacks ‘false prophets’, who would seem to be Wyclif and his followers. For while the ‘false prophets’ are not named specifically, the sermon followed quickly on the heels of the condemnations at the Blackfriars’ Council of May 1382, in which Brinton had taken part.57 He mentions in the sermon that the Church concludes with the Psalmist, ‘unjust witnesses have risen up against me; and iniquity has lied, etc.’ [Psalm 26:12], because their assertions (dicta) have been condemned publicly…through the mandate of the Lord [Bishop of] London.58

This last is a reference to a mandate issued to the bishop of London by Archbishop Courtenay ordering the publication of the condemned articles, and which uses the language of false prophets, drawn from Matthew 7:15 (‘Beware of false prophets, who come to you in the clothing of sheep’).59 Brinton lists three errors in this passage: First, about baptism, when they say that a bishop or priest who is in mortal sin cannot baptize or administer the sacrament. About confession they say that as long as one is rightly contrite, external confession is superfluous and useless. About the Eucharist they say that the substance of material bread and wine in the sacrament of the altar remains after consecration.60

All of these errors are drawn from the articles condemned at Blackfriars, which will be dealt with in turn.61 The first point (that these false prophets hold a Donatistic position) was not Wyclif’s position concerning the sacrament of baptism, on which his teaching is entirely conventional.62 It was not even true of his position on the sacrament of the altar, although he came closer to a Donatistic position in this latter case, as Ian Levy has shown.63 The second assertion is much closer to the truth of Wyclif’s understanding of the sacrament of penance, which denied the strict necessity of confession to a priest. Brinton replies to this position from canon law:

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SEAN A. OTTO I reply that if confession was neglected without reasonable cause, it deprives a person of the right of Church burial (Decretals, On penance and remissions, canon ‘Omnis’).64

The canon Omnis is the famous decree of the Fourth Lateran Council, fully entitled Omnis utriusque sexus (Everyone of both sexes), which mandated yearly confession and reception of the eucharist, and to which Wyclif was so vehemently opposed.65 Brinton’s understanding of the eucharistic doctrine of remanence, which argued that the substance of bread and wine remained after the words of consecration, is the closest to a position actually held by Wyclif. To this position, Brinton replies with a reference to St. Ambrose: As Ambrose says in his book On the Sacraments [Book 4], before the words of consecration, there is bread on the altar; but after consecration, by the power of the words bread becomes the body of Christ. And thus what was bread before the consecration is now the body of Christ after consecration.66

Brinton ignores the ambiguity of this passage, the true meaning of which he thinks self-evident: the bread is no longer there on the altar after consecration, there is only the body of Christ. Wyclif, of course, would have no problem assenting to Ambrose’s words, and in fact does in his De Eucharistia, taking the words to mean that the bread and wine are to be believed to be Christ’s body and blood;67 but he interprets these words in light of other patristic sources (Augustine and Hilary),68 as well as of scripture,69 in order to argue for a sacramental, rather than physical, presence. Wyclif did not deny the real presence, but he interpreted it to mean something quite different from Bishop Brinton’s understanding.70 For good measure, Brinton covers the subject of images in the same sermon, another area of disagreement with the Oxford reformer: ‘Further, recently those false prophets have been preaching and affirming that the cross of Christ and images must not be worshipped. This is manifestly false.’71 Perhaps in the oral delivery of this sermon, Bishop Brinton elaborated on why the worship of images is meet and right; but here in the written record, he left it as a self-evident truth that the position of the ‘false prophets’ was indeed false. Wyclif’s own position on images was ambiguous, for he writes at times that they can be useful to the laity, when properly instructed by a good curate, yet also writes that it would be safer for them to be destroyed.72 The opinion of some of Wyclif’s followers became more hardened against images than Wyclif’s own position on the matter.73 While it remains unclear whether Brinton has Wyclif’s or Wycliffite positions in mind, given the earlier references to the Blackfriars condemnations, it is not too much of a stretch to think that he might.

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Comparing the teaching of Wyclif and Brinton, we see that they are both clearly participating in a larger tradition of reform within the English church. They are both concerned with the salvation of their flocks, highlighting the efficaciousness of the cross against sin; and they are both eager to have those in ecclesiastical office perform their duties conscientiously. Both men seem to have been cut from the same cloth, attacking perceived abuses with vigour and constancy. The difference lay in their conception of what reforms were needed. The most profound differences were those related to sacramentology, where the two disagreed over the nature of the eucharist and the practice of penance. Nevertheless, disagreement—even about so important an issue as the sacraments—should not blind us to the similarities in outlook that these two men held, and to their participation in the culture of reform in the late medieval English church.

Conclusion Overall, the shape of Wyclif’s reform program in his Latin sermon collections is conservative; he wished to prune the outgrowths of unnecessary and dangerous novelties, and to confirm and strengthen the healthy limbs of the church. To do this, he followed the pattern established by the various bits of pastoral legislation from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, even while rejecting so fundamental a reforming act as Omnis utriusque sexus. Throughout his reformist preaching, there appear again and again two fundamental directing principles: the word of God as revealed in scripture, and the logic of scripture by which to read this word. Where the legislation of synods, the efforts of the church hierarchy and the writings of theologians accord with these principles, Wyclif is more than happy to make use of and to partake in these reforming traditions; where these do not conform, Wyclif argues with them, opposes them and rejects them. At heart, these decisions are driven by the pastoral nature of Wyclif’s efforts. It is on account of the sheep of the Lord’s flock, the members of the body of Christ, that Wyclif takes umbrage at the theology of his opponents and their immoral behaviour. Theology is deadly serious business because the souls of the faithful are at stake; and the pernicious fallacies brought forth concerning the eucharist and penance— to name but the most prominent—endanger the faithful by leading them astray, causing them to commit grave sin. It is for this reason that Wyclif is so adamant in his opposition to what he perceives as false doctrine. In these convictions, Wyclif was hardly alone, as the comparison with the reformist bishop, Thomas Brinton, so well illustrates. That there was a broader movement for reform within the church in England, and one that

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included those whose orthodox credentials were impeccable, is starting to be recognised by scholars. This broader movement produced a variety of reformist thinking, from reforming bishops to surly Oxford theologians to (un) popular movements such as Lollardy. We would do well to remember that Wyclif and his conservative reform program were part of a church seeking to renew and reinvigorate itself through reform.

Notes 1. See Ian Christopher Levy, ed., A Companion to John Wyclif: Late Medieval Theologian (Leiden: Brill, 2009); idem, ‘A Contextualized Wyclif—Magister Sacrae Paginae’, in Mishtooni Bose and J. Patrick Hornbeck, eds, Wycliffite Controversies (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 33–58; idem, Holy Scripture and the Quest for Authority at the End of the Middle Ages (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012), esp. 54–91. 2. Johann Loserth, ed., Iohannis Wyclif Sermones (New York: Johnson Reprint, 1966). See Sermones, I.16, 110:16–19. See also, Gotthard Lechler, John Wycliffe and his English Precursors, Peter Lorimer, trans. (London: Religious Tract Society, 1904), 193–221; Sean A. Otto, ‘The Authority of the Preacher in a Sermon of John Wyclif’, Mirator 12 (2011), 77–93. 3. Wyclif was forced out over his views on the eucharist: Andrew Larsen, ‘John Wyclif, c. 1331–1384’, in Companion to John Wyclif, 44–58. 4. See Anne Hudson and Pamela Gradon, eds, English Wycliffite Sermons, 5 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983–1996), III.cvii.n30; Hudson provides the following list of sermons with such indications: Sermones, I.35.29–31, 128.3–4, 130.30–1, 192.12–14, 223.1–4; II.79.12–20, 219.30–1; III.145.9–10. See also Hudson, ‘Wyclif’s Latin Sermons’, 233 and 233n48, where she adds the following: I.38.15, 133.11, 165.1, 197.3; II.158.36, 159.6, 202.21, 226.30, 247.5, 282.36, 285.11, 419.23, and 459.19. 5. Sermones I.preface.7–14. 6. I am currently working on a short study of these sermons which is intended to discuss Wyclif’s understanding of sanctity, and the reasons for which he chose to include these non-biblical saints. These three sermons are Sermones, 2.5 (Thomas of Canterbury), 2.6 (Sylvester), and 2.17 (Translation of Martin of Tours). 7. Hudson, ‘Wyclif’s Latin Sermons’, 228. 8. Sermones II.6, 43.20–44.11. The case of the Virgin Mary is a little more ambiguous, since she was free from at least actual sin, and probably also original sin, although this is not certain; see Sermones II.8, 54.20–38. 9. Sermones II.17, 125.4–27. 10. Sermones II.5, 33.18–35.11. 11. For Grosseteste’s syllabus, see F.M. Powicke and C.R. Cheney, eds, Councils and Synods, with Other Documents Relating to the English Church (Oxford: Clarendon, 1964), 1:265–278; for Peckham, ibid. 2:900–5. On this kind of legislation and preaching, see Siegfried Wenzel, Latin Sermon Collections from Later Medieval

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12. 13. 14.

15.

16.

17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24.

25. 26.

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England: Orthodox Preaching in the Age of Wyclif (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 346–54. See, for example, Sermones I.13, 92; I.60, 395; II.12, 83–4; III.34, 278; III.51, 438; III.58, 507; 4.12, 101; IV.63, 500. See Larsen, ‘Wyclif’, 9–15. For Thoresby, see, Jonathan Hughes, ‘Thoresby, John (d. 1373)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004 (hereafter ODNB) and for the Catechism, see Thomas Frederick Simmons and Henry Edward Nolloth, eds, The Lay Folk’s Catechism (London: EETS, 1901); R. N. Swanson, ‘The Origins of the Lay Folk’s Catechism’, Medium Aevum 60 (1991), 92–100, and Anne Hudson, ‘A New Look at the Lay Folk’s Catechism’, Viator 16 (1985), 243–58, and eadem, “The Lay Folk’s Catechism: A Postscript’, Viator 19 (1988), 307–10. Sermones I.30, 259.30; The Lay Folk’s Catechism, 70. Wyclif also uses this verse in R. L. Poole and Johann Loserth, eds, De civili dominio (London: Wyclif Society, 1885–1904), 4.460.13. It is used also by Thomas Aquinas (†1274), in R. J. Batten, ed. and trans., Summa Theologiae, 34: Charity [2a2ae, 23–33] (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1975; reprinted, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 240–1; and by Guido of Monte Rochen, in his Manipulus curatorum, Anne T. Thayer, trans., Handbook for Curates: A Late Medieval Manual on Pastoral Ministry (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2011), 300. The latter is an immensely popular pastoral manual, with over 250 manuscripts extant. Sermones I.37, 248.4; De civili dominio, 4.460.29; Johann Loserth, ed., De Potestate Pape (London: Wyclif Society, 1907), 12.1; The Lay Folk’s Catechism, 76 (which omits ‘Doc.’); Summa, 2a2ae 32.2; Monte Rochen, Handbook, 300. These latter two also omit teaching from their lists. See above, notes 15 and 16. Swanson, ‘The Origins of the ‘Lay Folk’s Catechism,’” 91. Sermones I.15–24. Sermones I.29, 4.56–57. The latter two form a set, preached on 2 and 9 November 1376; see William Mallard, ‘Dating the Sermones Quadraginta’, Medievalia et Humanistica 17 (1966), 98–9. Sermones I.44. Sermones 1.30 and 31; Gotthard Lechler, ed., Trialogus cum supplemento trialogi (Oxford: Clarendon, 1869), 93–101; Stephen E. Lahey, trans., Trialogus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 84–90. For Wyclif’s preaching on the bodily senses, Sean A. Otto, ‘Wyclif’s Preaching on the Five Bodily Senses: The Perils of the Flesh’, in Beatrix Busse et al., eds, The Five Senses in Medieval and Early Modern Cultures (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming). Sermones I.30, 37. The sacraments and the vices and virtues are discussed throughout the entirety of Wyclif’s Sermones, see Sean A. Otto, Pastoralia in John Wyclif’s Sermones: Controversial Preaching in Late Medieval England (PhD dissertation, University of St. Michael’s College, Toronto, 2013), esp. chaps 2–3 on sacraments and on vice and virtue. For Wyclif on the priesthood, see Stephen Penn, ‘Wyclif and the Sacraments’, in Levy, Companion to Wyclif, 276–9. See Sermones 1.4, 9, 32, and 2.60. For Wyclif on baptism, see Penn in Levy, 272–5.

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27. See Sean A. Otto, “John Wyclif and Thomas Cranmer on Penance’, in Thomas Power, ed., Change and Transformation: Essays in Anglican History (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2013), 1–25; Penn in Levy, 283–9. 28. Wyclif’s remarks about the friars’ and bishops’ lies about the eucharist are found throughout the Sermones, but for a sampling, see Sermones I.60, 2.12, 2.26, 3.45, 4.63. For Wyclif on the eucharist, see Penn in Levy, 249–72; Ian C. Levy, John Wyclif’s Theology of the Eucharist in its Medieval Context, (Milwaukee, WI: Marquette, 2014), a revised and expanded edition of John Wyclif: Scriptural Logic, Real Presence, and the Parameters of Orthodoxy. 29. Levy, Wyclif’s Theology of the Eucharist, 264–74. 30. Ibid. 296–306. 31. See Lahey, Wyclif, 120, 128–31. 32. See Wyclif’s Theology of the Eucharist, 127–234 passim, but see 233–4 for a succinct summary. 33. Levy, Wyclif’s Theology of the Eucharist, 264–74, 310–31; idem, Holy Scripture and the Quest for Authority at the End of the Middle Ages (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012), 79–80. 34. See Otto, Pastoralia, 197–207. 35. Sermones IV.56, 437.22–25. 36. Sermones IV.57, 449.25–450.2. 37. See Johann Loserth, ed., De Mandatis Divinis (London: Wyclif Society, 1922), 93–151. Excerpts of De mandatis are translated in J. Patrick Hornbeck, Stephen E. Lahey, and Fiona Somerset, eds, Wycliffite Spirituality, (Mahwah, NY: Paulist, 2013), 90–106. 38. Wenzel, Latin Sermon Collections, 45–9; Henry Summerson, ‘Thomas Brinton’, ODNB; and Mary Aquinas Devlin, ed., The Sermons of Thomas Brinton, Bishop of Rochester (1373–1389), 2 vols (London: Royal Historical Society, 1954), I.ix–xvii (hereafter, STB). 39. See Holly Johnson, ‘“The Hard Bed of the Cross”: Good Friday Preaching and the Seven Deadly Sins’, in Richard Newhauser, ed., The Seven Deadly Sins: From Communities to Individuals, (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 129–44, esp. 138–43. 40. Sermones IV.40, 330.17–22. 41. Sermones IV.40, 330.31–331.3. 42. Johnson, ‘The Hard Bed of the Cross’, 140 (STB II.253). All other translations of Brinton, unless otherwise noted, are my own. 43. De civili domino, II.202.2–19. 44. Something also held in common with Richard FitzRalph, Robert Rypon and other preachers, G. R. Owst, Literature and Pulpit in Medieval England: A Neglected Chapter in the History of English Letters and of the English People, 2nd edn (Oxford: Blackwell, 1961), 243–7. 45. STB II.317; cf. ibid, I.68, and Mary Aquinas Devlin, ‘Bishop Thomas Brinton and His Sermons’, Speculum 14/3 (1939), 324–44, 340–1. 46. STB II.132. 47. Most noticeably in his discussion of the story of Jesus and the ten lepers from Luke 17:11–19 in Sermones I.46. 48. The exemplum is found in STB I.134. 49. Ibid.

The Reform Program of John Wyclif’s Sermons 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57.

58. 59. 60.

61. 62. 63. 64. 65.

66. 67.

68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73.

59

Ibid. Ibid. See, for example, Sermones IV.44, 362.24–363.13. See Otto, ‘Wyclif and Cranmer on Penance’, 6–15; Penn in Levy, 283–9; Lahey, Wyclif, 197. STB I.200. Emphasis added. Ibid., II.495. See Otto, Pastoralia, 46–88. On this council, see Larsen, ‘John Wyclif’, 50–8; Joseph Dahmus, The Prosecution of John Wyclyf (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1952), 89–99; Andrew Cole, Literature and Heresy in the Age of Chaucer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 3–22. Documents relating to the council can be found in David Wilkins, ed., Concilia Magnae Britanniae et Hiberniae (London, 1737), III.157–65. STB II.466. The text of the mandate is found in Concilia Magnae 3.158–65. STB II.495, where the pseudoprophetas for Devlin are Wyclif and his followers. For English, see Siegfried Wenzel, Preaching in the Age of Chaucer: Selected Sermons in Translation (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2008), 130–1. Hereafter, PAC. Concilia, 3.157. See Penn in Levy, 272–5. See Ian Christopher Levy, ‘Was John Wyclif’s Theology of the Eucharist Donatistic?’ Scottish Journal of Theology 53/2 (2000), 137–53. PAC, 131 (STB II.495). See Otto, Pastoralia, 95–7. For text of Omnis utriusque sexus (canon 21), see Giuseppe Alberigo, et al., eds., Conciliorum oecumenicorum decreta. An English translation is available in Norman P. Tanner, Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils (London: Sheed & Ward, 1990), I.245. PAC, 131 (STB II.495). ‘[F]rom the saying of blessed Ambrose, set out in De Consecracione, dis. 2 Omnia quecunque: “Although the form of bread and wine is seen [in the Eucharist], they are to be believed nothing other than the flesh of Christ and [his] blood after consecration.” Behold, that bread and wine are to be believed to be the flesh of Christ and [his] blood.’ Johann Loserth, ed., De Eucharistia tractatus maior (London: Wyclif Society, 1892), 33.3–8. Ibid. 33.9–27. Ibid. 33.28–34.11. See Penn in Levy, 249–72; Levy, Wyclif’s Theology of the Eucharist. PAC, 131 (STB II.495). Sermones I.13, 89.22–92.38. See Margaret Aston, ‘Lollards and Images’, in Lollards and Reformers: Images and Literacy in Late Medieval Religion (London: Hambledon Press, 1984), 135–92; Otto, ‘Authority of the Preacher’, 86–9. Aston, ‘Lollards and Images’, 143–77.

Richard Hooker: The Confident Church of England Reformer DAVID NEELANDS

Richard Hooker is generally acknowledged as a critical sixteenth-century figure in the Church of England. He has been claimed by a variety of advocates for positions inside and outside the Church of England and for positions that developed later. An apparently eirenic attitude to Roman Catholics and occasional criticisms of central figures of the Protestant Reformation should not obscure the fact that he was a confident upholder of the Reformation of the Church of England, and that his careful defence of its institutions did not, in his mind, exceed a careful reformed position. His defence provides a platform convenient for ecumenical discussions.

Attitude to ‘the Papists’ Hooker’s attitude to ‘the Papists’ was out of the ordinary polemical mode.1 Walter Travers accused Hooker of preaching ‘sower leaven’ in his sermons at the ‘Temple’. This phrase from the New Testament allusion to tiny yeast’s power to ‘puff up’ flour referred to corrupt pre-Reformation and contemporary Roman Catholic views, particularly on the Pelagian question and the doctrine of justification by faith. In Travers’ mind were, no doubt, the questions of assurance and of Hooker’s notorious view of the two wills in God. Travers and Hooker do not seem to have quarreled on sacramental theology; but principally involved must have been Travers’ conviction that Hooker’s generous view about the possibility of salvation of Roman Catholics compromised the principle of the gratuity of justification. Hooker consistently held a particularly generous view of contemporary papists. Roman Catholics were members of the visible church,2 since this church is made up of those who profess Jesus Christ as Lord, and only apostasy can

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separate the Christian from the church.3 Hooker mocked those who wanted to avoid papist errors by avoiding customs shared with them.4 Imitating the continental Reformed churches in something that made no sense in itself, just to avoid sharing a traditional custom was also foolish: ‘[W]e had rather followe the perfections of them whom we like not [the papists], than in defectes resemble them whome we love [other Reformed churches].’5 Although even John Whitgift did not agree completely with Hooker on the question, earlier English reformers had expressed Hooker’s view. Hooker made no secret of his rejection of Roman Catholic views: although the Church of England retained ‘parte of their ceremonies, and almost their whole government…wee are devided from the Church of Rome by the single wall of doctrine’.6 Although they do not reject the profession that Jesus Christ is Lord, and are therefore not apostates, ‘[h]eretiques they are’.7 The principal heresy of Roman Catholics is on the matter of justification. They attribute merit to human actions in sanctification, so that further grace is itself merited.8 Hooker also believes they wrongly attribute a causal efficacy to the elements of the eucharist,9 and press transubstantiation as a core doctrine, a theory that cannot be established from scripture.10 Furthermore, they erect ‘traditions’ on a par with scripture.11 But Hooker at least twice, in the Answer to Travers, refers to the bishops at the Council of Trent as ‘the fathers of Trent’, far from an abusive term.12 There is stronger language addressed to ‘the reprobates’ alluded to in the Two Sermons upon S. Judes Epistle. On the supposition that these sermons were directed primarily against papists, some have found the tone to be quite different from that of the Temple sermons. The tone is quite different indeed, but it is clear that the reprobates mentioned include papists,13 atheists14 and puritanizing ‘separatists’.15 The severe phrase ‘son of perdition and Man of Sin’ used of the pope16 is shocking to modern ears; but the second part of the phrase ‘Man of Sin’ occurs twice in the undisputedly genuine Learned Discourse on Justification17 and, for that matter, in the preface to the Authorized Version. Hooker was eirenic, but he was a man of his time. His ‘sympathy’ for Roman Catholics depended upon an objective and accurate account of the genuine doctrines shared with them by the Church of England, and also upon an objective and accurate account of those very important matters wherein the Roman Catholic Church held different views. Hooker also exposed the anxiety about the use of prelatical power by Roman Catholics to cruelly, and with a high hand, overrule legitimate civil power; but he did so in a way that ironically emphasized both the greater power of God’s mercy over human sinfulness and the possibility that a Protestant’s sins might be as terrible as those of any papist prelate:

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The houre maye come when we shal thincke yt a blessed thinge to heare, that yf our synnes were as the synnes of Popes and Cardinalls, the bowels of the mercye of God are larger. I do not propose unto you a Pope with the neck of an Emperor under his foote, a Cardinall riding his horse to the bridell in the blood of sainctes: but a pope or a Cardinall, sorrowfull penitent disrobed, stript not onlie of usurped power, but also delivered and recalled from error; antichrist converted and lying prostrate at the feete of Christe.18

Hooker maintained an accurate acquaintance with the writings of his Roman Catholic contemporaries on the eucharist,19 although he was little affected by them. His not least contribution to the accuracy of sixteenth-century debates on the eucharist was his direct denial of the venerable canard of the supposed errors of pseudo-Thomas and Catharinus: that Christ’s sacrifice was for original, the sacrifice of the mass for actual, sin.20 In this regard, Hooker distanced himself from others involved in the polemical debates. For him, it was important to describe accurately what the Roman Catholic Church believed, and to indicate where the Church of England and the Roman Catholic Church were in agreement, in order to refute ‘their’ charge ‘that when we cannot refute theire opinions we propose to our selves suche insted of theires as we can refute’.21 This reference to inaccuracies in Protestant anti-papist polemics, and Hooker’s consistent conviction that the defence of the Reformation meant accuracy of the description of Reformation and anti-Reformation views and the avoidance of hyperbole, seems to come from a traumatic experience his Church experienced at the beginning of his public career. In 1580–1581, the Church of England received a shock in the secret arrival of Edmund Campion and his Jesuit companions. Campion provided a direct challenge to the establishment of the church, while disclaiming a challenge to royal supremacy that had been part and parcel of previous papist initiatives. Campion was an emblem of the growing Jesuit interest in the polemics of accuracy in the account of the conflicting views of church teaching in the Reformation period that would eventually be perfected by Robert Bellarmine; and he produced a pamphlet, Decem rationes, challenging Reformation views, particularly those of Luther and Calvin that seemed to overstate Christian doctrine. Many in England were impressed by his analysis and by his person as he publicly defended himself effectively against his accusers at a government trial and cruel public execution. Bishop John Aylmer, who had ordained Hooker, and who was the senior cleric of the Province of Canterbury during the sequestration of Archbishop Grindal from 1577–1582, recommended a careful policy of accuracy in describing papists’ erroneous positions and the avoidance of the hyperbole of continental reformers. This was not the general policy of the Church of England or of the Queen’s Council towards papist writings, but it

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seems to have informed Hooker’s position, whose public writings studiously described papist views accurately even to the point of attracting criticism, and who carefully avoided hyperbole.22 In describing Reformation and anti-Reformation positions accurately, and without hyperbole, Hooker explicitly rejected some papist positions and, at the same time, indicated where they contained shared elements of right teaching. Hooker consistently denied that there was any real merit in any sort of human work, but he held that there was a real growth in virtue in those being sanctified, and that the divinization of the elect in glory was as a reward for their works.23 This emphasis and series of connections was certainly unusual, if not novel, in the English Reformation; but the individual parts had all been affirmed before, some clearly and some tentatively and confusedly. Although Hooker clearly had the same apologetic motive that led to the production of his benefactor John Jewel’s extended polemical apologies against Roman Catholics, he had a higher loyalty: his distinctive insistence on describing accurately the ‘matter itself’ that was part of his spirituality of the truth. For him, in the debate about justification, as elsewhere, the new forces in the Church of England produced a spirituality of hypocrisy and pharisaism: the new piety replaced hearkening ‘to the readinges of the law of God’ and keeping in mind the ‘aphorismes of wisdome’, with preaching and hypocrisy, the ‘discoverie of other mens faltes’.24 Thus he claimed a spiritual motive—as well as the political one referred to above—in his eirenic and objective outlook towards the ‘papists’; and in this outlook, he self-consciously opposed himself to the polemical anti-papist stance of Puritan agitators for further reforms. It is therefore not surprising that later Roman Catholics, from time to time, claimed Hooker’s support. Whether this was opportunistic or not, his position on scripture was considered favourable to Roman Catholics by Roman Catholics, who argued that he held that the canon of scripture was not determined by scripture itself,25 and scripture cannot validate itself.26 Roman Catholics took kindly to Hooker’s emphasis on the importance of the sacraments, not only signifying but conferring grace,27 to his acknowledging that papists are in the church28 and to his recognizing points of agreement between the Church of England and the papists.29 Hooker’s insistence on the truth, and this support, sometimes cost his reputation.30

Hooker’s Protestantism31 Hooker’s views on church government and episcopacy put him in opposition to the Puritans of the second half of the reign of Elizabeth, who advocated further reform of the Church of England to restrict the authority of the prince in

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ecclesiastical matters and to replace the episcopacy with a presbyteral system. This was a harsh debate within the Reformed households. In this, Hooker clearly sided with Whitgift and the court party against Cartwright and Travers. This debate continued in England and Scotland for a century or more after Hooker’s death, when the typical positions on episcopacy and royal supremacy were debated between groups who showed a significant diversity from each other on the theology of grace and of election and assurance. But it would be an anachronism to read back the seventeenth-century theological line-up into the reign of Elizabeth. Although Hooker was frequently quoted in support of the Stuart position against the seventeenth-century Presbyterians, his views were much more moderate than those made official by William Laud; in fact, their ‘old fashioned’ moderation may account for the abandonment of the program of publication of the Lawes. For the extended and developed account of episcopacy and royal supremacy in Books 7 and 8, although opposing presbyteral views, would be embarrassing to those who taught the divine authority of the episcopacy and the divine right of the monarchy. The official formularies, including both the Articles and the liturgy and homilies, had their birth in an earlier age, and were not Calvinist—but not so much anti-Calvinist, as pre-Calvinist. Elizabeth herself preferred to look backward to the standards of the period of her brother’s reign, that is, to her own Protestant youth before the Calvinist theological leadership of the Reformed world had yet been accomplished. But the formularies were patient of Calvinist interpretation. Their cautious formulations did not rule out the stronger theology that was to set the agenda for the Elizabethan church. Neither did they state it. The Lambeth Articles of 1595, though unofficial in original intent, were one attempt to narrow the Articles so that they would not be so comprehensive on the questions of assurance and predestination. Hooker came to consciousness and matured in this Elizabethan world, where an increasingly triumphant Calvinism became assumed as the official theology—though it had hardly been accommodated when the formularies were given authoritative form. Hooker’s roots were honestly Protestant. His uncle and protector, John Hooker, was a notable supporter of reform in the Edwardian period. Richard Hooker was taken up, it was said, as a protégé by Jewel, Elizabethan bishop of Salisbury and first official apologist for the Reformed English church. When Jewel died in 1571, Edwin Sandys took up Jewel’s interest and support for Hooker. Through Jewel’s sponsorship, Hooker became a member of Corpus Christi College, which was said to have a papist element; but Hooker was most clearly associated with John Rainolds, his tutor, who was not in any sense a papist. Rainolds survived to be on ‘the more radical side of the table’ at the Hampton Court Conference, as a moderate ‘Minister’ selected by King James.

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Hooker consistently praises the origin and goals of the English Reformation, hardly mentioning its theological leaders. Significantly, he hardly mentions the precursors of reform such as Wyclif32 or the Cambridge Lutherans of the 1520s.33 In the peroration to Book 4 of the Lawes, Hooker traces the course of the English Reformation to show God’s providential direction of it. Henry VIII is chosen as the origin of the movement, as the champion of the independence of the English church, and the beginning of the eradication of superstition. Edward VI is referred to as ‘Edward the Saint: in whome … it pleased God righteous and just to let England see what a blessing sinne and iniquitie would not suffer it to enjoy’. Mary’s reign is noted only as nearly obliterating the beginning and the progress of the eradication of superstition from ‘the ruines of the house of God’. Elizabeth is reckoned a ‘most glorious starre’ arising out of the preceding darkness.34 Hooker’s summary is, however, singular in not mentioning by name the significant theological figures of the movement. Indeed, this silence is typical of all Hooker’s extant writings, with a very few exceptions. Jewel is praised by name in another place as ‘the worthiest Divine that Christendome hath bred for the space of some hundreds of yeres’.35 William Fulke (1538–89), the enemy of the surplice and the Rheims version of the New Testament, is mentioned in passing in Book 7 as an authority on the position that episcopacy was a decision of the church, not a divine ordinance.36 But these references to individual leaders are very much the exception. Over and over, A Christian Letter, written by a person or persons claiming to be ‘Protestant’, criticizes the first five books of the Lawes for their deviations from the Articles of Religion37 and from the writings of the earlier English reformers, particularly the Marian martyrs. Although he might have done so, Hooker never once quotes these pre-Edwardian figures in his notes in the text of A Christian Letter, with the exception of a brief reference to John Frith as exhibiting a desirably eirenic point of view.38 More significantly, with one possible exception, Hooker never quotes the Articles at all.39 He does quote Calvin and other foreign reformers, and quotes an enormous range of medieval and patristic authors, apparently as showing the manner of the interpretation of scripture and the creeds in earlier times of Christianity. This is consistent with his view of the authority of the church in interpreting scripture. The Thirty-Nine Articles did have authority in the Church of England, although the interpretation of this authority and the nature of subscription were not consistent or clear until the reign of James VI and I. Hooker subscribed to them at least once, on 17 July 1591, when he became the prebend of Netheravon, attached to Salisbury Cathedral.40 In fact, it was some of the Puritans, not the Conformists, who objected to the non-doctrinal parts of the

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Articles, particularly those dealing with the authority of the king and bishops. Hooker alludes to the authority of the Articles in one or two passages in the Lawes, but is otherwise silent on them: [T]he forme of common prayer being perfited, articles of sound Religion and discipline agreed upon, Catechismes framed for the needfull instruction of youth, Churches purged of thinges that indeede were burthensome to the people or to the simple offensive and scandalous, all was brought at the length unto that wherein now wee stand.41

This is a reference to the basic skeleton of the Elizabethan settlement as it related to doctrine and discipline, and, once again, interprets the Reformation as primarily the purging of superstition and corruption, rather than a revolution of doctrine. Later, he explicitly commends subscription to the Articles as a way of combating novelty.42 Thus Hooker recognized the authority of the Thirty-Nine Articles, and their appropriateness, but did not see fit to quote from their content in support of his view. This need not mean he disagreed with them, or held them in low esteem. Rather, it may simply mean that they were of contemporary and national authority only, and therefore in some sense provisional and, in principle, in as much need of defence as any other institution of the Elizabethan Settlement. They did not have the force of the biblical, patristic and medieval witness to the decision of the church in matters of doctrine and discipline. In any case, although the Reformation established by the Tudor monarchs is part of the providence of God for the English people, it is not the creation of something new. The English Reformation is not the beginning of a new commonwealth, but the reform of an old one, and as such, it retains whatever is valuable in the old.43 It was the role of the three good Tudors to establish the reformation of ‘a decayed estate’ and to reduce the Church of England ‘to that perfection from which it swarved.’ To quote the Tudor Articles would beg the question. The Articles of Religion were a part of the restored perfection, but had to be justified properly, like every other part of the Tudor ecclesiastical settlement, by the appeal to scripture as interpreted by the earliest church, by reason and by the previous decisions of the church. Thus Hooker would not quote them in their own defence, or, as it turned out, in his.

Hooker and Luther What of the great continental reformers? Luther is apparently recognized as a genuine pioneer in the reform of the church, and given credit for preserving its continuity, rather than beginning a new one.44 Luther is acknowledged,

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for better and for worse, as the accepted authority in the German church, as Calvin was in the French.45 Luther is also held up as an example of an authority who challenged the authority to preach of an unauthorized preacher, Thomas Müntzer.46 Luther was, however, too lenient in not distinguishing peaceful from violent Anabaptists.47 More seriously, Lutherans deny the foundation of faith ‘by consequent’, in that their speculations about the presence of Christ in the eucharist led them into serious Christological error.48 Most seriously, Luther, like the papists, insisted on a theory of Christ’s presence in the eucharist that could not be supported by scripture.49 Hooker at no time acknowledges the importance of Lutheran writings in the English Reformation, from the 1520s on, nor the partial dependence of the Book of Common Prayer and the Articles of Religion on Lutheran sources. Luther is never once identified as a founder of the movement of reform in England. Hooker mentions Luther’s views only occasionally, and then only as deviating from sound Christianity, particularly in Christology, where Hooker consistently condemned the ubiquity of Christ’s glorified body in the eucharist and the consequent typical Lutheran view of the presence of Christ in the sacrament.50 Lutherans are not criticized for their views of justification or predestination. Yet perhaps Hooker’s most profound debt to Luther can be seen in his dependence on the deep theological principles of the magisterial reformation itself—beginning with Luther and his theology of the ‘two kingdoms’, and including Calvin—that are the touchstones of Hooker’s doctrine of the royal supremacy in matters ecclesiastical.51 Hooker probably owed his reliance on the use of the critical category of adiaphora, as well as his version of via media, to Luther and Lutheran sources, just as the English formularies owed their core assumptions and some of their language.

Hooker and Calvin52 Hooker has been identified as both a Calvinist and an anti-Calvinist. The reasons for this contradictory identification are found in his remarks about Calvin, and especially about those disciples of Calvin who were pressing for further reforms in the Church of England in the direction of Calvin’s Geneva. As for Calvin himself, Hooker refers to him as ‘incomparably the wisest man that ever the French church did enjoy, since the houre it enjoyed him’. Hooker acknowledges that Calvin’s reputation was rightly earned on the strength of his biblical commentaries and the Institutes of the Christian Religion. He is a ‘grave and wise man’ who did not hold the same theological views as some of his current disciples advocating change; and he acknowledged that different churches could make different decisions about their polity. If the highest

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compliment is imitation, then Hooker honours Calvin by echoing, without attribution, Calvin’s instrumentalist account of Christ’s presence in the eucharist and Calvin’s account of sanctification—neither to be found explicitly in the English formularies Hooker was defending. Hooker undoubtedly follows Calvin in the account of the eucharist in Book 5 of the Lawes, although Calvin is not cited,53 and in his assumptions about sanctification in Discourse on Justification.54 Hooker seems to have preferred the unofficial Geneva Bible in some cases.55 Hooker also offers some criticisms of Calvin, namely, that he carried himself with less humility than one ought; that his reforms of church discipline in Geneva were overly promoted for other churches; that his machinations in the institution of presbyteral polity in Geneva were not admirable; and that one of his opinions was ‘crazed’. Even in points of praise, Hooker observes a reference of distance: Calvin is not the greatest figure of the French church through the ages, but rather there has been no one of his stature since him. He finds that admiration for Calvin’s preaching, less important than the biblical commentaries and the Institutes, was outrageously overstated; and that although a ‘grave and wise man’, Calvin was human and not necessarily infallible. But it is Calvin’s disciples who are more to be criticized. Their veneration of him was dangerous and promoted his authority beyond measure, and they ignored his frailty; they treated criticisms of Calvin as dangerous for the reputation of the church; they are so biased in favour of Calvin’s model that they fail to recognize it as a novelty. Hooker quotes Calvin to show that Calvin did not agree with some of the opinions of current followers. For instance, Hooker invokes Calvin’s judgement of philosophy.56 In speaking of Calvin, Hooker often uses rhetorical devices, such as irony and litotes, to offer distance from Calvin. He uses phrases from Beza’s biography of Calvin, such as ‘Calvin that grave and wise man’ and ‘men are men and truth is truth’, in ironic ways to give that distance in ways that Beza must not have intended. A recent study of Hooker’s rhetorical use of irony, while recognizing many previous studies that have identified Hooker’s admiration of Calvin, has concluded that ‘Hooker is highly critical not only of Calvin the man, but also of aspects of his teachings’.57 The use of irony with respect to Calvin does not diminish the genuine admiration Hooker felt. It may, however, offer some distance from the superhuman view of Calvin promoted by his later disciples. Hooker held a view of election that resembled Calvin’s, but did not agree with Calvin on unconditional reprobation, or with Calvin’s disciples on limited atonement. For Hooker, but not for Calvin and his disciples, grace is—in some ways—resistible and the justified do not have (perfect) assurance throughout their lives.58

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Thomas Aquinas and Other Scholastics Hooker took an unusual interest in medieval scholastics in order to develop a common theological account that would also use Thomistic neo-scholastic figures, especially Dominicans, such as Thomas Cardinal Cajetan (1469–1534) and Chrysostom Javelli (1470–1538). It has long been noted that Hooker mined the opinions of medieval scholastics, including Scotus, but especially Thomas Aquinas, although not without clear disagreements. Just as with his sixteenth-century Roman Catholic and Reformation authors, he was careful to identify precisely what were subjects of agreement and what were not.59 Of the eight times Hooker cites Thomas, four are critical of Thomas. But the overall dependence on and admiration of Thomas in his writings is apparent, from the borrowing (with important differences) of Thomas’s classification of laws to the Thomistic pattern of the double need for human grace and the dictum that grace perfects nature and does not destroy it, with the corollary that revelation perfects reason and does not destroy it.60 Hooker toys with the principle of analogy, apparently using the accounts of both Cajetan, who argued for the analogy of proper proportionality, and John of St. Thomas (1489–1544), for the more accurate analogy of intrinsic attribution.61 This is not to say that Hooker does not introduce novelty. He frequently grafts Reformation branches onto a Thomistic theological tree.62 Having shown, through Thomistic argument, that human beings need revelation to know the ‘divine law’ because the original way of salvation by works and reward was closed, he identified that divine law with justification by faith, the touchstone of the Reformation. The medieval scholastic patterns of the human search for happiness and the need for grace (because humans are both creatures and fallen) are answered by the sixteenth-century Reformation rediscovery of the meaning of justification and the meaning of the faith by which human beings are justified. Hooker’s frequent use and incorporation of scholastic thought raised suspicion among some of his critics. The authors of A Christian Letter complained that Hooker relied on Aristotle, the scholastics, reason and reading in a way that threatened to revive popery.63 It might equally well be seen that he was involved in a theological conversation that crossed the boundaries of the Reformation.

Differences Within the Reformed World Enough has been said about the distance Hooker and the consensus of the Elizabethan Church of England set between themselves and Lutherans on

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Christology and the presence of Christ in the eucharist. This should not be interpreted as wholesale acceptance of the successful international Reformed and Calvinist position, as if that were the only other alternative, and as if it were uniform. Hooker and the authorities within the English church distanced themselves from Calvinist church polity and Calvinist separation of the authority in the church from the authority of the civil magistrate. Hooker was a willing advocate of the official position. But there was more variety of opinion on other matters within the Reformed household, and Hooker was not afraid to dissent from an emerging Calvinist consensus, most particularly on predestination and assurance, even if that meant departing from the views of Whitgift (whose position on the questions of polity he supported and generally promoted). That there was more variety to the Protestant household in England than stronger and weaker Calvinism, Hooker is prime evidence. It was primarily the recognition of the hyperboles of the Reformed position and the avoidance of promoting them in defence of the Reformation that appears to have distanced Hooker from the great continental reformers and their disciples in England. This position could well have derived from adopting the response of Bishop Aylmer to the trauma of the Jesuit arrival with Campion. Accuracy and the avoidance of hyperbole are essential in order to remain credible to all. Among such hyperboles, five might be listed: 1. Salvation is sola fide—as opposed to the careful biblical and reformation view that justification is by faith, with justification understood as declarative rather than constitutive, and with faith understood in terms of certainty of adherence (fiducia) rather than certainty of evidence (notitia and assensus). The unique foundation of salvation is Christ, and as long as our ancestors (and contemporary papists) did not deny that, they might express their account of salvation incorrectly and yet be included in the mercy of God.64 2. Scripture is the only authority in church decisions relating both to what is to be believed and what is to be done (sola scriptura)—as opposed to the more careful and traditional view (prima scriptura) that scripture is sufficient for that for which it is intended: ‘to make human beings wise unto salvation’ and ‘that we may believe that Jesus is the Christ and in believing to have life’. Though scripture is the first authority, reason has a role and there is a wide range of decisions that are the responsibility of the church, beyond what is necessary for salvation.65 3. The internal witness of the Holy Spirit guarantees the believer an infallible test to identify the canon of scripture (and infallible certainty about its meaning since scripture is easy to interpret literally) without

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There were various attempts to bridge the gaps of the Reformation at Augsburg (1518), at Marburg (1529), at Regensburg (1541), and so on. Yet, despite the hardening lines of the Reformation, there remained those who did maintain an ‘ecumenical vision’, despite the risk taken in maintaining such a position. Hooker was one of these. He was, first of all, a confident Protestant: ‘That which especially concerneth our selves, in the present matter we treate of, is the state of reformed religion’.70 That state was rich in texture, independent and based on a long tradition that was not displaced by the novelties of the current age. An honest ‘virtual’ dialogue could continue across the terrible divides. That virtual dialogue should involve a recognition that ‘the other’ was still part of the church of Christ, that it undermined the credibility of the Reformation position to repeat inaccuracies and hyperboles (no matter how venerable the source), and that, most importantly, one must understand the current positions of the ‘other’. In the phrase of a twentieth-century scholar, Hooker illustrates the openness, reasonableness and tolerance of a moderate position.71 A confident Protestant can be fair and open, and not resort to self-defeating rhetoric. After his death in 1605, his former student and supporter, Edmund Sandys, published a proposal for the reunion of the moderate churches, A Relation of the State of Religion: and with What Hopes and Policies It Hath Beene Framed, and Is Maintained in the Several States of These Westerne Partes of the World. This proposal did not come to fruition, but the proximity to Hooker is clear. Hooker was pointed to as a bridge figure who might be attractive to moderate Roman Catholics and moderate Protestants. Lucius Cary, second Viscount Falkland (c. 1610–1643) and royalist politician, maintained a circle at Great Tew, his country house, and along with Hugo Grotius,

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admired Hooker enormously and contemplated an ecumenical arrangement on an international conciliar basis, modelled on Hooker’s account of the Christian faith and the church. Falkland commissioned a Latin translation of the Lawes so it could be read outside England.72 Could this be the ultimate source of a legend in Walton’s life about the on-the-spot translation for the Pope?73 Now, in the wake of the Second Vatican Council, a new era of ecumenical discussions has begun between the Roman Catholic churches and almost all other churches; and Hooker has been readily identified as an asset in such discussions.74

Notes

1. 2.

3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Sixteenth Century Studies Conference, Salt Lake City, Utah on 27 October 2006. The paper draws in conclusions from several articles I have published; the reader is referred to them for detailed treatment. This section is a revised version of David Neelands, The Theology of Grace of Richard Hooker (Th.D. dissertation, Trinity College/University of Toronto, 1988), 57–63. Citations from Richard Hooker’s Of the Lawes of Ecclesiastical Politie are from W. Speed Hill, ed., The Folger Library Edition of the Works of Richard Hooker, 7 vols (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap, 1977–1998). Hereafter FLE. See Lawes 5.68.9 (FLE II.355.8–13); see also Lawes 3.1.10 (FLE I.201–2). Lawes 5.68.6 (FLE II.352.5–8). Lawes 4.7.6 (FLE I.297.7–17). Lawes 5.28.1 (FLE II.121.26–8). Lawes 4.3.1 (FLE I.280.13–16). Lawes 4.6.2 (FLE I.289.26). Justification [5]–[9] (FLE V.110–118, esp. V.111.1–6, 23–4). David Neelands, ‘Christology and the Sacraments,’ in Torrance Kirby, ed., A Companion to Richard Hooker (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 394–6. Lawes, 5.67.9–11 (FLE II.336–40). See Neelands, ‘Christology and the Sacraments’ 398–400. Lawes 3.8.14 (FLE I.231.15–18); 5.65.2 (FLE II.302.3–9). For a discussion of ‘papist errors’ on the sacrament, see Neelands, ‘Christology and the Sacraments’, 376, 384, 385, 394–6. Answer,13 (FLE V.239.31, 241.6). First sermon of Two Sermons upon Part of S.Judes Epistle 7 (FLE V.20.23–21.5). Ibid. 9 (FLE V.23.13–20). Ibid. 11 (FLE V.25.26–26.7). Ibid. 15 (FLE V.32.16–17). Justification [5], [27] (FLE V.112.6, 147.19). Justification [35],(FLE V.162.27–163.1). Dublin 18 (FLE IV.120.14–121.5).

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20. Supplication (FLE V.203.21–24); Answer 14 (FLE V. 242.9–15). On the history of this misapprehension, see Francis Clark, Eucharistic Sacrifice and the Reformation (Oxford: Blackwell, 1960), 469–503. 21. Answer 12 (FLE V.238.4–13). 22. On this incident and its effect on the apologetics of the Church of England and on Hooker, see Neelands, ‘Richard Hooker’s Paul’s Cross Sermon’, in Torrance Kirby and P.G. Stanwood, eds, Paul’s Cross and the Culture of Persuasion in England, 1520– 1640 (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 245–61. 23. David Neelands, ‘Hooker on Divinization: Our Participation of Christ’, in Ellen M. Leonard and Kate Merriman, eds., From Logos to Christos: Essays in Christology in Honour of Joanne McWilliam (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2010), 137–49. 24. Lawes 5.81.10 (FLE II.487.26–488.4). See David Neelands, ‘Richard Hooker and Assurance’, in Perichoresis 7/1 (2009), 93–111. 25. Michael Brydon, The Evolving Reputation of Richard Hooker: An Examination of Responses, 1600–1714 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 33. 26. Ibid. 66, 103. 27. Ibid. 34, 154. 28. Ibid. 65, 125. 29. Ibid. 152. 30. Ibid. 198–204. 31. This section is a revised version of my own The Theology of Grace of Richard Hooker, 208–17. Although he might have done so, Hooker did not call himself or his church ‘Protestant’. That term, was not used officially in England until late in the seventeenth century. 32. Some have seen the phrase ‘as from time to time since the Gospell began to shine among us’ as a reference to Wyclif. The reference is far from clear, and it is not used by Hooker but by his adversaries. A Christian Letter, preface (FLE IV.9.15–16). John Booty rightly notes this may refer to the onset of the English Reformation (FLE IV.185). Hooker does refer to Wyclif’s political works several times (FLE VII.263, VI.325n27 and VI.326n29), and shows he has read well by noting that he has been unable to find one of Wyclif’s supposed opinions, with which he does not agree, Lawes, 7.22.7 (FLE III.276.26–8). It is Queen Elizabeth, not Wyclif, who is ‘the most gloriouse starre’, Lawes, 4.14.7 (FLE I.343.10–344.2), see below. 33. Against the authors of Christian Letter, Hooker cites John Frith who was executed for heresy in 1533 (FLE IV.46.13–14), as supporting Hooker’s approach to erroneous eucharistic theology among Roman Catholics. See quotations in commentary at 4:219–20. 34. Lawes 4.14.7 (FLE I.343.10–344.2). 35. Ibid. 2.6.4 (FLE I.171.2–4). 36. Ibid. 7.11.8 fn h (FLE III.208.h). 37. Hooker was criticized for deviations from no less than seventeen of the ThirtyNine Articles. W. Speed Hill, ‘Richard Hooker in the Folger Edition: An Editorial Perspective’, in Arthur Stephen McGrade, ed., Richard Hooker and the Construction of Christian Community (Tempe, AZ: Medieval & Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1997), 19n46. 38. FLE IV.46.13–14, IV.219–20.

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39. Hooker possibly refers to Article 10 at Dublin 1 (FLE IV.101:3–6). Speed Hill has supposed that the phrase ‘in everie article’ in Hooker’s notes (FLE IV.3.3) in A Christian Letter refers to the official Articles of Religion. Speed Hill, ‘Editorial Perspective’, in FLE I.12. This may be, but the phrase could refer to each of the twenty–one points made by the authors of Christian Letter. 40. Clavi Trabales (London, 1661), 147. 41. Lawes 4.14.4 (FLE I.339.23–29). 42. Lawes 5.81.11(FLE II.489.9–15). 43. Lawes 5.17.5 (FLE II.63.26–33); see also 4.8, 14 (FLE I.298–302 and 336–45). 44. Lawes 3.1.1 (FLE I.201.4–9). 45. Lawes preface.4.8 (FLE I.26.28–27.1). 46. Lawes 7.14.11(FLE III.227.17–23). 47. Lawes preface.8.9 (FLE I.46.32–47.1). 48. Justification [17] (FLE V.125.1–3, fn k). 49. Lawes 5.67.10 (FLE II.340.24–28). See ‘Christology and the Sacraments’, 376, 396–7. 50. Lawes 5.54.9 (FLE II.226.7–22); 5.55.4–5 (FLE II.228–230); 5.67.10 (FLE II.337.14–29); Justification [17] (FLE V.125.1–3). 51. W.J. Torrance Kirby, Richard Hooker’s Doctrine of Royal Supremacy (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1990). 52. The argument of this section has mostly been dealt with in Neelands, ‘The Use and Abuse of John Calvin in Richard Hooker’s Defence of the English Church’. Perichoresis 10/1 (2012), 3–22. Republished in Rob Clements and Dennis Ngien. eds, Between the Lectern and the Pulpit: Essays in Honour of Victor A. Shepherd, (Vancouver: Regent College Publishing, 2014), 31–47. References to Hooker’s writings and other works will be found there and are not repeated here. 53. Lawes 5.67 (FLE II.330–43). See Francis Paget, An Introduction to the Fifth Book of Hooker’s Treatise Of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1907), 180–2. 54. Justification [3] (FLE V.109.6–14); Calvin, Institutes 3.3; Lawes, 3.17.11,12 (FLE I.814–816). There was some consonance, as Hooker noted, between this Calvinistic treatment of sanctification, and the scholastic theology of Aquinas. See David Neelands, Theology of Grace, 38–46; idem, ‘Justification and Richard Hooker the Pastor’, in John K. Stafford, ed., Lutheran and Anglican: Essays in Honour of Egil Grislis (Winnipeg: St. John’s College Press, University of Manitoba, 2009), 171–6. 55. FLE V.667, 851. 56. Christian Letter 20 (FLE IV.65.11–12). Compare Lawes 7.11.10 (FLE III.210.27– 211.6). 57. A.J. Joyce, Richard Hooker and Anglican Moral Theology, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 56. See Neelands, ‘Use and Abuse of John Calvin’, 43n24; and Neelands, review of Joyce, Richard Hooker and Anglican Moral Theology, in Journal of British Studies 52/2 (April 2013), 509–10. 58. David Neelands, ‘Richard Hooker and Assurance’, Perichoresis 7/1 (2009), 93–111. 59. See Neelands, Theology of Grace, 301–7. 60. See Neelands, ‘Scripture, Reason and Tradition’, 76–89. 61. Neelands, Theology of Grace, 316–24. 62. Ibid. 72.

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63. Christian Letter 20 (FLE IV.64–71). 64. Neelands, ‘Justification and Richard Hooker the Pastor’, 167–82. 65. See David Neelands, ‘“But who do you say that I am?” The Labels We Use for Richard Hooker: Protestant, Unprotestant, Via Media”, forthcoming. 66. Neelands, ‘Use and Abuse’, 38–9. 67. And perhaps the evidence of our love of our brethren, as in the first sermon of Two Sermons upon Part of S. Judes Epistle 11 (FLE V.25.21–6). 68. Neelands, ‘Richard Hooker and Assurance’, 104–7. 69. David Neelands, ‘Richard Hooker and the Debates about Predestination 1580– 1600’, Toronto Journal of Theology 7/1 (Spring 2001),187–202; republished in W.J. Torrance Kirby, ed., Richard Hooker and the English Reformation (Dortrecht, The Netherlands: Kluwer, 2003), 43–61. 70. Lawes 4.14.7 (FLE I.344.4–6). 71. D.R.G. Owen, ‘Is there an Anglican Theology?’, in M. Darrol Bryant, ed., The Future of Anglican Theology (Toronto: Edwin Mellen Press, 1984), 8–10. 72. Hugh Trevor–Roper, Catholics, Anglicans, and Puritans: Seventeenth- Century Essays (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 191–7. The manuscript is at Folger Library. 73. Walton’s Life of Hooker; John Keble, ed., Hooker’s Works 3 vols (1888), I.71. 74. This identification has been pursued by Olivier Loyer, Richard K. Faulkner and others. See William P. Haugaard, ‘Richard Hooker: Evidences of an Ecumenical Vision from a Twentieth–Century Perspective’, Journal of Ecumenical Studies 24 (1987), 427–39.

Unworthy Reception and Infrequent Communion in the Tudor-Stuart Church ERIC GRIFFIN

One consequence of the Reformation was our resigning ourselves to live apart as Christians. Denominationalism, however, was not the reformers’ intention: their goal was to reform the church as a whole, not to divide it into pieces of the body—one reason why dissent was so harshly suppressed. Even though the non-Christian world may perceive no significant distinctions among the baptized, and despite the near-universal mutual recognition of baptism among Christians themselves, some Christians believe that our divisions are necessary because we are divided doctrinally. Unity in the body of Christ, they say, is eschatological; and only when Christ comes again will he reconcile all things, including the church, to himself. Human attempts towards outward Christian unity, then, become a false and superficial ignoring of our very real divisions. On the other hand, conservative Lutheran theologian Richard John Neuhaus wrote, after his Catholic conversion, that the deliberate maintaining of denominations is nothing less than Donatism. The Donatists appealed to St. Cyprian as precedent for refusing to recognize the sacraments of the traditores, those who had lapsed in time of persecution…The Church is holy in practice and correct in doctrine, said the schismatic Donatists, and therefore it cannot exist in communion with the unholy and erring.1

Ever since Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians reported that Jesus said, ‘Do this in memory of me’, the sacrament of holy communion has been a matter of dispute amongst Christians—at times resulting in sacramental neglect, avoidance, even repudiation, but especially expulsion. It has been more often used to define the separation of Christian churches than as a means of grace and a living sign of Christian unity. Christians have institutionalized

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eucharistic exclusion; and, despite many ecumenical efforts, ‘unity in reconciled diversity’ has not been effected. Even within the Anglican church there has long been a struggle to decide who is or is not to be excluded from communion: non-Anglicans and members of ‘unsound churches’; those who cannot recite the Catechism, Lord’s Prayer, Creed and Ten Commandments, or who are not well-enough versed in doctrine; those who are unable to give satisfactory evidence of their being predestined to salvation; those living in grievous sin or between whom the minister perceives malice and hatred; and children, the unconfirmed or the unbaptized. At some time or other, all of these have been—and some still are—seen as fulfilling the criteria for refusal. The seventeenth-century Puritans2 in the Church of England acquired an undeserved reputation for being exclusionary and even anti-sacramental. As several studies have since demonstrated, however, they encouraged frequent communion, and their understanding of the sacraments was every bit as high, and sometimes higher, than that of the central church leaders who are often characterized as the Laudians or Arminians. Mayor remarks: ‘Calvinists would never have admitted that they recognized less significance in the Lord’s Supper than Roman Catholics in the Mass.’3 Yet the Reformed English reverence for the sacraments and their sense of mystery was so high that it would paradoxically contribute to anti-sacramental accusations. John Calvin advocated weekly communion, deplored merely monthly celebration, and was outraged by yearly. Richard Baxter wrote that ‘ordinarily in well disciplined churches’ the sacrament should be received every Lord’s Day. John Owen too advocated frequent, preferably weekly, celebration.4 Even in Holland and the American colonies the sacrament seems to have been observed weekly in some congregations. But the reality was that eucharistic worship remained by and large the exception rather than the rule. Modern scholars have examined the phenomenon. Mayor summarizes the main reasons for infrequent sacramental observance, particularly among the separatist and dissenting Puritans.5 First, the Puritans attempted to protect the integrity of the sacraments to such a degree that they could be observed only under very particular circumstances. Secondly, while asserting their importance, they nevertheless relegated the sacraments to a secondary role in Christian life; and thirdly, there developed a shift towards a non-material piety. Hostility to the perceived popishness of the Book of Common Prayer also led to infrequent reception and consequently to the accusation of Puritan neglect of sacraments. Some practices acceptable to Prayer Book

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conformists were unacceptable to Puritans, either because they lacked sufficient scriptural warrant or they were too closely identified with Rome. Some people were identified as Puritans because they refused to receive (or administer) the sacrament kneeling or at the chancel rail, or to preside if the table were against the east wall. Some people would avoid communion until they could find a minister of whose practices they approved; or would travel long distances in search of one.6 Cocksworth’s summary is very similar.7 Officially, Puritans wanted to connect gospel and sacrament closely, but in practice their concerns actually brought about neglect and separation. Several reasons included: the need for a ‘preaching’ minister lawfully ordained to preside; the requirement to establish the purity of the congregation; the emphasis on the primacy of the preached word, which alone authenticated the sacraments; and the necessity for demonstrable outward signs of assurance of election. Holifield discusses the anti-sacramental impulse largely in terms of the Puritan suspicion and mistrust of physical matter coupled with the rise of subjective internalist piety.8 Grace cannot come by material, fleshly, carnal or sensual means. Election means that God’s grace is a priori; therefore, the matter of the eucharist cannot itself convey grace, consequently making actual communion superfluous to salvation, but nevertheless of grave importance.9 Thus six factors have been identified as contributing to the conclusion that the sacraments were neglected among the Puritans, despite their advocacy of the importance of the eucharist. These include: suspicion of the Book of Common Prayer; the fear of unworthy reception; restricting communion to those deemed worthy; suspicion of material means of grace in favour of more purely ‘spiritual’ worship; subordination of the eucharist to preaching; and Reformed orthodoxy’s doctrine of election, which left the impression that the sacraments were ultimately unnecessary. In contrast to these conclusions, Arnold Hunt has re-evaluated eucharistic observance in the established Church during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and concluded that infrequent communion was typical of the entire Church of England. Despite efforts of the clergy and bishops, most people were simply not interested in receiving more often than at Easter. This, he says, was not a matter of neglect or disrespect; they just did not feel the need. Even the legal requirement of at least three receptions a year was mostly disregarded. It is now apparent that, far from their supposed suspicion of sacraments and opposition to the Lord’s supper, it was the Puritans themselves who managed to establish regular monthly communion services for a time in some places.10

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Worthy Reception Despite the church’s encouraging and even legislating more frequent communion, a serious post-Reformation dissuasion was the general teaching of ‘worthy reception’. The Reformation in England put the average churchgoer in a terrible bind. Annual reception of communion at the old mass had been the norm. One of the clearest stated aims of the Reformation was to overcome passive watching of the liturgy, and the people were encouraged to receive holy communion frequently, ideally weekly. But they had to be careful: St. Paul had written in 1 Corinthians 11 that to communicate unworthily was to damn one’s self. According to the reformers, ‘worthy communion’ required rigorous spiritual preparation based on Paul’s direction, ‘Examine yourselves.’ This self-examination was to include a penitent searching for any sin one might have committed, a reconciliation with all persons, a sincere intention to reject further sin and a lively faith in Christ’s redemptive self-sacrifice on the cross. To present oneself casually and unprepared was to profane the sacrament and the guest in Jesus’s parable ejected from the feast for not wearing a wedding garment was invariably the exemplar (Mt. 22:11–13). Furthermore, despite the risk, the people were told that to avoid the sacrament was also a grave sin, but they were offered little by way of reassurance that their preparation was sufficient. It seemed that, for all intents and purposes, one was expected to be in a state of grace before receiving the means of grace (as indeed Arthur Hildersham actually asserted).11 Ecclesia reformada semper reformanda: the church being reformed must continue to reform itself. In this spirit, modern theology must acknowledge the many achievements of the Reformation, but also that there is much to be reconsidered, corrected and even abandoned in order to be faithful to the proclamation of the gospel in our own time. In the matter of worthy communion, the reformers were well-intentioned but wrong and self-defeating. In order to further the Reformation goals of frequent communion and fidelity to scripture, it must be abandoned. An examination of 1 Corinthians 11 will result in a better understanding of Paul’s intention, and thereby advance the objective of frequent reception of the eucharist, and demonstrate that preparation as self-examination for sin actually aggravates the very problem Paul was combatting. The conventional Reformation interpretation of 1 Corinthians 11 contributed to the very practice the reformers were trying to correct, that is, the continuation of infrequent communion. The dangers of unworthy reception were so emphasized that the eucharist seemed impossibly sacred and

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dangerous. It was a sin to refuse communion, and yet it was a sin to receive unworthily. Far better, it seemed (and safer) to stay away from an ordinance which could not convey grace, but could cause damnation. Hunt agrees, stating that the evidence suggests that ministers set their standards too high and, in their efforts to encourage their flocks to prepare more carefully for receiving the sacrament, ended up by discouraging them from receiving it at all. Protestant teaching may have succeeded only too well, reinforcing popular respect for the sacrament in a way that its authors neither intended nor desired, and that proved to be pastorally self-defeating.12

1 Corinthians Paul’s instruction to the church in Corinth to avoid eating and drinking unworthily by self-examination was in fact much more simple a practice than that interpreted by the reformers. Paul instructed the Corinthians to examine themselves to find whether they ‘discern the body’. When you come together, it is not really to eat the Lord’s supper. For when the time come to eat, each of you goes ahead with your own supper, and one goes hungry and another becomes drunk. What! Do you not have homes to eat and drink in? Or do you show contempt for the church of God and humiliate those who have nothing?…Examine yourselves, and only then eat of the bread and drink of the cup. For all who eat and drink without discerning the body, eat and drink judgement against themselves…[W]hen you come together to eat, wait for one another. If you are hungry, eat at home, so that when you come together, it will not be for your condemnation.13

He accused them of coming only to eat supper instead of sharing in the Lord’s. Paul’s criticism was that people were attending the agape meal as though they were eating alone, not sharing in the worship of the whole community. What body are we to discern in the agape: Jesus’ transubstantiated given to us sacramentally under the species of bread? By no means, for this would be a theological development more than a millennium in the future. The body Paul means is the church, the ecclesia, the synaxis; and unworthy reception is eating selfishly as though one were alone. The body to be discerned is the people gathered as one, which he explains with his famous analogy of the body immediately following (1 Cor. 12:12–31). The church also overlooked the injunction in James 2:1–4 that forbade the making of class distinctions in the congregation: My brothers and sisters, do you with your acts of favoritism really believe in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ? For if a person with gold rings and in fine clothes

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ERIC GRIFFIN comes into your assembly, and if a poor person in dirty clothes also comes in, and if you take notice of the one wearing the fine clothes and say, ‘Have a seat here, please’, while to the one who is poor you say, ‘Stand there’, or, ‘Sit at my feet’, have you not made distinctions among yourselves, and become judges with evil thoughts?

In some places this is precisely what happened: The communion service could also be used to reinforce social distinctions. From the charges against John Vicars, minister of St Mary’s, Stamford (Leics.), drawn up between 1628 and the High Commission hearing in 1631, it appears that people came to receive communion in order of social precedence, with ‘the ordinarie sort of people’ receiving last…Some parishes even used two grades of communion wine, with a better quality wine, such as muscadine, being reserved for the better sort of parishioners.14

The error of the Reformation was the understanding of self-examination as the search for personal sin, which maintains and reinforces the belief that a person’s communion is essentially private: a solitary presentation of the self to God regardless of the participation of the rest of the congregation present. According to Paul, however, the sin of unworthy reception is exactly this sort of spiritual solipsism.

The Reformed English Liturgy From the sixteenth century onward the people repeatedly heard that the purpose of self-examination was for personal sin. The first Prayer Book of Edward VI (1549), and every revision of the Book of Common Prayer afterwards, included an exhortation to be read at the liturgy which clearly invited the people to receive the comfort and spiritual reassurance of the sacrament; yet warned them it was sinful to avoid communion, and that to receive it without adequate spiritual preparation was mortal sin. It defined worthy reception as repentance for sin, reconciliation with all people, a firm resolve never to sin again and faith in Christ’s promises. A second exhortation was to be read if ‘the people be negligent to come to the Communion’. The invitation to confession in the Prayer Book liturgy still reinforces the individualist conditions for admission: Ye that do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins, and are in love and charity with your neighbours and intend to lead the new life, following the commandments of God, and walking in his holy ways: draw near with faith, and take this Holy Sacrament to your comfort.

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There is a practically (but undoubtedly intentionally) lurid passage in Sermon XV in the Second Book of Homilies which graphically describes unworthy reception: For surely, if we do not with earnest repentance cleanse the filthy stomach of our soul, it must needs come to pass, that, as wholesome meat received into raw stomach corrupteth and marreth all, and is the cause of further sickness: shall we eat this wholesome bread, and drink this cup, to our eternal destruction. Thus we, and not other, must thoroughly examine, and not lightly look over ourselves, not other men; our own conscience, not other men’s lives: which we ought to do uprightly, truly, and with just correction… Wherefore, if servants dare not presume to an earthly master’s table, whom they have offended, let us take heed we come not with our sin unexamined into this presence of our Lord and Judge. lf they be worthy blame which kiss the prince’s hand with a filthy and unclean mouth, shalt thou be blameless, which with a stinking soul, full of covetousness, fornication, drunkenness, pride, full of wretched cogitations and thoughts, dost breathe out iniquity and uncleanness on the bread and cup of the Lord?15

Even during the interregnum, with the BCP abolished, the people would have heard the same double message. The Puritans’ Westminster Confession of Faith is blunt: Although ignorant and wicked men receive the outward elements in this sacrament; yet, they receive not the thing signified thereby; but, by their unworthy coming thereunto, are guilty of the body and blood of the Lord, to their own damnation. Wherefore, all ignorant and ungodly persons, as they are unfit to enjoy communion with Him, so are they unworthy of the Lord’s table; and cannot, without great sin against Christ, while they remain such, partake of these holy mysteries, or be admitted thereunto [39.8].

The Directory of Worship required that before the communion the minister is, in the name of Christ, on the one part, to warn all such as are ignorant, scandalous, profane, or that live in any sin or offence against their knowledge or conscience, that they presume not to come to that holy table; shewing them, that he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh judgment unto himself: and, on the other part, he is in an especial manner to invite and encourage all that labour under the sense of the burden of their sins, and fear of wrath, and desire to reach out unto a greater progress in grace than yet they can attain unto, to come to the Lord’s table; assuring them, in the same name, of ease, refreshing, and strength to their weak and wearied souls.16

The people would have heard with considerable regularity both the urgent instruction to attend, and the grim warning away from, the sacrament.

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Devotional Works Devotional books concerning the holy communion were thick on the ground by the end of the seventeenth century and handbooks specific to worthy reception were popular. A few titles are: The Whole Duty of A Communicant: Being Rules and Directions for a worthy receiving the most Holy Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper, John Gauden (3rd edn,1687); The Worthy Communicant, Jeremy Taylor (1660); An Help and Exhortation to Worthy Communicating, John Kettlewell (4th edn, 1701); Mensa Mystica (4th edn,1660) and The Christian Sacrifice: A Treatise Shewing the Necessity, End, and Manner of Receiving the Holy Communion, (8th edn, 1687) both by Simon Patrick; An Introduction to the Worthy Receiving the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper by William Pemble (1629). They were popular in America too, and when Cotton Mather complained that eucharistic manuals were scarce, he published in Boston his own Companion for Communicants: Discourses upon the nature, the design, and the subject of the Lords Supper; with devout methods of preparing for, and approaching to that blessed ordinance (1690).17 A typical example of the genre is A Weeks Preparation Toward a Worthy Receiving of the Lord’s Supper (author unknown). It went to eleven editions by 1687, forty-seven editions by 1738 and continued to be published until at least 1855. To modern readers this may seem to be a gruesome book, consisting largely of what we today might label self-absorbed, morbid spiritual masochism. A passage from the Monday evening meditation is typical: O Lord, I do here cast down myself before Thee, Oh cast me not away from Thee. I cannot stand at the bar of Thy justice; I do therefore lie down at the footstool of Thy mercy. I do condemn myself for my sins, Lord, do not Thou judge me, but wash away my sins in my Saviour’s blood. I do most humbly confess and bewail my wretched nature and wicked life before Thee, for my thoughts, deeds, and works past. [Here think of thy particular sins]. My conscience cries out against me, so vain, so foul, and so ill have they been before Thee.

There are to be sure passages of faith and hope, but even they have an overall tone of despair and terror of abandonment. The author asserts that there are five requirements for worthy reception:18 The due Preparation to the Sacrament is by Examination and Prayer, whether thou hast, 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

A Fervent Desire to partake of this Holy Table. Competent Knowledge in this high Mystery. Faith in Christ’s Incarnation, Life and Death. A Conscience cleansed by true Repentance. An Heart free from Malice and all Uncharitableness.

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He continues: He that worthily receiveth, must 1. Examine. 4. Believe. 2. Desire. 5. Repent. 3. Know. 6. Love. And again we have the threat: Yea, consider that it is a very dangerous thing for those who fear God, to neglect attending on his Ordinance…There is a punishment for them who ought to come, and come not, as well as for those who came not as they ought.19

On Tuesday evening: Open, O Lord, I beseech thee, the Eyes of thy Mercy upon me, thy most unworthy Servant, who in Heart earnestly desireth pardon and forgiveness of all my Sins and Offences, the total Sum whereof is the breach of all thy commandments, both in thought, word, and deed, thy Blessings and Benefits I have abused; thy Judgements and Punishments not feared, the means of my own Salvation utterly neglected.20

Lewis Badly’s The Practice of Piety contains a chapter on the worthy receiving of the sacrament, and it is equally discouraging: God hath ever smitten with fearful judgments, those who have presumed to use his holy Ordinances without due fear and preparation; God set a flaming sword in a Cherubins hand to smite our first Parents being defiled with sin, if they should attempt to go into Paradise, to eat the Sacrament of the Tree of Life. Fear thou, therefore to be smitten with the Sword of Gods vengeance, if thou presumest to go to the Church with an impenitent heart, to eat the Sacrament of the Lord of Life. God smote 50,000 of the Bethlehemites for looking irreverently into his Ark.21

And for those who would prefer not to risk it, he adds: But then thou wilt say, it were safer to abstain from coming at all to the Holy Communion; Not so, for God hath threatened to punish the wilful neglect of his Sacraments, with eternal damnation both of body and soul. And it is the Commandment of Christ, Take, eat, do this in remembrance of me; and he will have his Commandment under the penalty of his curse obeyed…[T]he neglect and contempt of his Sacrament must argue the contempt and neglect of his love and bloodshedding: than which no sin in Gods account can seem more hainous.22

C. Fitzsimmons Alison, in The Rise of Moralism, is highly critical of Jeremy Taylor’s The Worthy Communicant and the holy living school of thought it

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represents, with its concomitant ‘pastoral cruelty’. He summarizes Taylor’s central point: There must, then, be a complete extirpation of any known sin or desire for sin, and there must be such a cleansing in repentance that a man truly believes he shall never any more commit that sin for which he is repentant. He must inquire diligently to be sure that his resolution is not ‘one only of satiated appetite and shame of sin handled and will it still be there when the appetite returns?’ If a man does not possess such repentance, he is unworthy to communicate.23

Alison concludes that according to Taylor, should an unclean person come to communion, the sacrifice of Christ will not cleanse him, but rather his impurity will pollute the sacrifice of Christ, and God will turn ‘away his head and hate the sacrifice’.24 The cleansing, in any case, must be done prior to communion.25 So, Alison asks, if a state of saving grace must first be achieved before receiving the sacrament, why then bother? The sacrament has become superfluous. There are some exceptions to the tone of excessive grovelling. Richard Baxter wrote at length on who might and might not present themselves for communion, and under what conditions. In his Poor Man’s Family Book,26 he stated that only faithful and sincere believers should come to the sacrament. However, he counsels that if anyone had doubts regarding faith and sincerity, he should mind his own conscience; but, if the doubts could not be quieted, the person should receive. Baxter admitted that there are those not invited to the Lord’s Table. However, he spends much more effort comforting and reassuring those fearful to come to the sacrament than on teaching about the sacrament itself. He noted three reasons for fear of the sacrament: excess of reverence leading to either popery or the fear of unworthy reception; fear of disappointment that one might not get immediate joy; and sinful and willful neglect of the ordinance.27 Writing later in the century, Simon Patrick noted four similar causes: some found sacraments unnecessary; some misunderstood their meaning and benefits; some opted not to work at worthy reception; and some, finding no immediate benefit, abandoned communion.28 Another notable exception to the preoccupation with self-examination and repentance is Daniel Brevint’s The Christian Sacrament and Sacrifice.29 In 5.9–11, he explains his use of ‘worthy reception’, but unlike others he does not mean spiritual preparation in prayer, repentance, self-examination, pious devotions or a holy manner of life—although all of these are commendable. Brevint spends surprisingly little time on the topic (particularly when his book is compared to the vast bulk of other contemporary eucharistic manuals) and simply states that the crime of unworthy reception is ‘not to discern the

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Lord’s body’. In this he is like Calvin himself.30 Unworthy reception is simply the failure to discern Christ in the sacrament, treating it as common food. Of particular interest is the widely respected Richard Sibbes (1577– 1635) who has an impeccable Puritan pedigree. He was a remarkably pastoral preacher, described by Doerksen as ‘a moderate if powerful Puritan writer’.31 Mayor has written that for John Owen ‘the Lord’s Supper is solemn rather than joyful, and carries the worshipper back to Good Friday rather than the first day of creation or Easter Sunday’.32 It is fair to apply this judgment to most of the Puritans as well. But Sibbes is a notable exception, and he is in many ways a very attractive thinker. The Lord’s Supper pervades his writings, which include ‘The Right Receiving’ and ‘The Faithful Covenanter’, which are extensively sacramental; and also ‘A Breathing After God’, ‘The Spiritual Man’s Aim’, ‘The Excellency of the Gospel Above the Law’, ‘The Fountain Opened’ and ‘The Life of Faith’ amongst others.33 In contrast to Macaulay’s popularized Puritan caricature34 of the dour, joyless, dogmatic bigot: We find in Sibbes a highly sensitive, quiet poetic mind, in which the doctrine of the Holy Spirit is fully developed. Moreover, it is developed with a minimum of concern for the rigors of dogma. Sibbes, more than any other Puritan divine, spoke for spiritual warmth. If divinity were cold, scholastic, or dogmatic, he maintained, few would feel the need for a change in heart. But if divinity could ‘warm’ the heart, it mattered little what in theory man should not be allowed to do to effect his own salvation.35

His call for worthy reception was unlike that of Homily XV and A Week’s Preparation. In ‘The Right Receiving’ Sibbes appeals to 1 Cor. 11:2–9 and, asking whether anyone is worthy, says that there are two senses of ‘worthy’. He notes that it is true that no one is worthy to be a guest in himself; but, on the other hand, it is indeed possible to be worthy in regard to affection and preparation.36 In ourselves, Sibbes explains, we are not worthy that Christ should enter under our roof; but we are worthy when we do all that is in our power for the fit entertainment of him, coming not in rags, carelessness and pride, but in repentance, joy, comfort, humility. He shows the ‘experimentalism’ typical of the Puritans when he says that we must examine our hearts to see whether all is well. Sibbes asserts that the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper is to be received often; but baptism only once. A person needs to be born only once, but needs to eat regularly to nourish and grow in that life. This statement is like Hooker’s:

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ERIC GRIFFIN The grace which we have by the holy Eucharist doth not begin, but continue life. No man therefore receiveth this sacrament before Baptism, because no dead thing is capable of nourishment.37

Communion, says Sibbes, is not a sign of new life, but of growth and strength and continuing. And just as the weakest of people need to eat often, so we need to receive the sacrament often. Adequate preparation is necessary, and the frequent preparation required because frequent communion will save us from spiritual pride and hypocrisy. We must not come over-familiarly ‘with unwashed hands’.38 Sibbes repeats this exhortation to frequent communion in ‘An Exposition of the Third Chapter of the Epistle of St. Paul to the Philippians’ (1639). In his view, we must use the ordinances often, and come cheerfully, because they are necessary, and were used in the primitive church every Lord’s Day.

Conclusion People in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century England (before, during and after the civil wars) were inclined by social custom to receive holy communion yearly, and that in spite of both the encouragements and threats of the Prayer Book, pastors, the civil law and the popular devotional press. Contrary to the conclusion that the Puritans were responsible for a sacramental decline, they attempted a sacramental revival. Demarcating the boundaries of eucharistic hospitality was, and still is in our day, an unfortunate—to say the least—legacy of the Reformation. The rigorous penitential understanding of preparing oneself for a worthy reception is—to paraphrase Article 22 of the Articles of Religion—founded on no warrant of scripture, despite the marshalling of much scripture to reinforce it. Jesus did not say, ‘Take and understand’ or ‘Take and agree’ or ‘Repent before taking.’ He said, ‘Take and eat.’ St. Paul laid down only one condition: that everyone must recognize the body, the shared corporate essence of the congregation. This reality is reflected, for example, by the fact that the Anglican Church forbids the celebration of the eucharist unless there are at least two people to share it. For a congregation to expect to receive holy communion every Sunday, as is the practise in many places now, is a phenomenon of the last century among Protestants of English extraction. Importantly, a central emphasis in modern liturgical revision is the corporate nature of worship, the ‘whole people of God’, the gathered ecclesia. This emphasis combats what has been for many denominations the all-too-common tendency for worship to devolve into an aggregation of individuals saying private prayers at the same time and in the same place, having truly failed to recognize the congregation, the body.

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Notes 1. Richard John Neuhaus, ‘How I became the Catholic I Was’, First Things 4 (2002), 70. 2. The much-debated label ‘Puritan’ seems unavoidable, and must be applied with caution. For the purposes of this paper it shall refer to those conforming members of the Church of England who called themselves ‘godly’ and whose spirituality was largely experimental. Independents and Separatist Nonconformists are excluded. 3. Stephen Mayor, The Lord’s Supper in Early English Dissent (London: Epworth, 1972), 116. 4. John Randall wrote: ‘[I]f we knew the benefite of the Lords Supper, we would not come once a yeere, nor once a month, but everie daie if we could. It is the ignorance of the benefite of it that makes us come so seldome to it as wee doe.’ Quoted in Arnold Hunt, ‘The Lord’s Supper in Early Modern England’, Past and Present 161 (November 1998), 54. 5. Mayor, The Lord’s Supper. 6. Mayor, Dissent, 21–3. 7. Christopher J. Cocksworth, Evangelical Eucharistic Thought in the Church of England (Cambridge: University Press, 1993), 53–9; also E. Brooks Holifield, The Covenant Sealed: The Development of Puritan Sacramental Theology in Old and New England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974), 70–1. 8. Holifield, Covenant Sealed, 2, 35, 38. 9. It did not seem to occur to anyone that, according to strict prelapsarian election, no one who is reprobate can ever make a worthy communion regardless of preparation, and that no lack of preparation would cause one who is elect to receive unworthily. 10. Hunt, ‘Lord’s Supper’, 51. 11. Hunt, ‘Lord’s Supper’, 64. 12. Hunt, ‘Lord’s Supper’, 83. 13. 1 Cor. 11:20–34, emphasis added. All quotations are from the New Revised Standard Version. 14. Hunt, ‘Lord’s Supper’, 49. 15. ‘The Worthy Receiving and Reverent Esteeming of the Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ’, Homilies and Canons (Oxford: University Press, 1844), 404. 16. ‘Of the Celebration of the Communion, or Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper’, A Directory for Public Worship of God throughout the Three Kingdoms of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Together with an Ordinance of Parliament for the Taking Away of the Book of Common Prayer (London: Printed by T.R. and E.M. for the Company of Stationers, 1646). 17. Holifield, Covenant Sealed, 197. 18. A Weeks Preparation Toward a Worthy Receiving of the Lords Supper (37th edn, 1718), 19. 19. Ibid. 53. 20. Ibid. 47. 21. Lewis Bayly, The Practice of Piety Directing a Christian How to Walk That He May Please God (ca. 1612; 11th edn, 1619; 58th edn, 1734), 231. It was staggeringly popular amongst Puritans; the largest section in the book is on the Lord’s Supper. 22. Bayly, Piety, 232.

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23. C. FitzSimons Allison, The Rise of Moralism: The Proclamation of the Gospel from Hooker to Baxter (Wilton, CT: Morehouse Barlow, 1966), 77. 24. Not unlike Henry Barrow: ‘[T]he Prayer or Worship of the Faithful Is Poluted If Ther Be Prophane Men in Companie.’ ‘A Brief Summe of the Causes of Our Seperation’, in Leland H. Carson, ed., The Writings of Henry Barrow 1587–1590 (London: George Allen and Unwin Ltd., 1962), 418. 25. Allison, Moralism, 78. 26. William Orme ed., The Practical Works of the Rev. Richard Baxter, 23 vols (London: James Duncan, 1830). ‘Poor Man’s Family Book’, in Baxter XIX.517–8. 27. ‘‘The Catechising of Families’, Baxter XIX.83. 28. Simon Patrick, The Christian Sacrifice: A Treatise Shewing the Necessity, End, and Manner of Receiving the Holy Communion, 8th edn (London: for L. Meredith, 1687), 32. 29. Daniel Brevint, The Christian Sacrament and Sacrifice: by way of Discourse, Meditation and Prayer upon the Nature, Parts and Blessings, of The Holy Communion (Oxford, At the Theatre, 1673). 30. John Calvin, Institutes 4.17.40. 31. Daniel W. Doerksen, ‘Show and Tell: George Herbert, Richard Sibbes, and Communings with God’, Christianity and Literature 51/2 (Winter 2002), 188n2. 32. Mayor, John Owen, 180. 33. Alexander B. Grosart, ed., The Complete Works of Richard Sibbes, D.D., Nichol’s Series of Standard Divines, Puritan Period, 7 vols (Edinburgh: James Nichol, 1863). See Richard Sibbes, ‘The Right Receiving’, Sibbes IV.62; ‘The Faithful Covenanter’, Sibbes VI.23; ‘A Breathing After God’, Sibbes II.23; ‘Spiritual Man’s Aim’, Sibbes IV.41– 57; ‘The Excellency of the Gospel Above the Law’, Sibbes IV.205; ‘The Fountain Opened’, Sibbes V.457; ‘The Life of Faith’, Sibbes V.379. 34. He called them ‘fierce and gloomy spirits’, and wrote: ‘The dress, the deportment, the language, the studies, the amusements of the rigid sect were regulated on principles not unlike those of the Pharisees who, proud of their washed hands and broad phylacteries, taunted the Redeemer as a sabbath-breaker and a winebibber...The extreme Puritan was at once known from other men by his gait, his garb, his lank hair, the sour solemnity of his face, the upturned white of his eyes, the nasal twang with which he spoke, and above all, by his peculiar dialect.’ Thomas Macaulay, History of England from the Accession of James II (New York: Lovell, n.d.). See I, 83–4. 35. Norman Pettit, The Heart Prepared: Grace and Conversion in Puritan Spiritual Life (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966), 67. 36. ‘The Right Receiving’, Sibbes IV.62. 37. Hooker, Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity, 5.67. 38. ‘The Right Receiving’, Sibbes IV.64.

Pastors and Depression in Early-Modern England BRAD WALTON

There is a great difference between such as are only under trouble of conscience and such whose bodies are diseased at the same time. —Timothy Rogers, Trouble of Mind and the Disease of Melancholy

There seems to exist a widespread, popular idea that before the Enlightenment most forms of psychological disturbance, including depression, were considered supernatural in nature, and were generally treated by means of religious rituals or spiritual counsels.1 The most widely known literature of ancient societies, poetry and mythology, often conveys this impression.2 More importantly, the sacred scriptures of the Jews and Christians seem to convey a similar view. When the ‘spirit of the Lord’ departed from Saul, ‘an evil spirit from the Lord tormented him’ (1 Sam. 16:14) with what has often been interpreted as a severe depression, or ‘melancholic humour’ as Matthew Poole (1624–1679) called it.3 Early Modern English pastors, at least those with a standard university education, had a more complex—and a more physiological—understanding of depression. They saw it as a phenomenon that, although having a spiritual aspect, was in essence physical, and more properly treated by doctor than pastor. While recognizing a relationship between body and soul, by which either could affect the other, theologians carefully distinguished between forms of psychological distress that were essentially spiritual and those that were essentially somatic. The differences between these two kinds of mental distress were painstakingly defined, and distinctions between them carefully observed.

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Depression and Melancholia The Early Modern concept that corresponds most closely to the modern term ‘depression’ is melancholia or melancholy. Depression, like other mental illnesses, is diagnosed by its symptoms.4 The symptomatology of depression bears close resemblance to that described by Renaissance commentators on melancholia. Three principal forms of depression include such manifestations as persistently sad, anxious, fearful, or empty feelings; feelings of pessimism and hopelessness; feelings of guilt, worthlessness, or helplessness; irritability and restlessness; loss of interest in once pleasurable activities; decreased energy; difficulty in concentrating or making decisions; insomnia or its opposite, excessive sleeping; loss of appetite or its opposite, overeating; thoughts of, or attempts at, suicide; aches, pains or digestive problems resistant to treatment.5 All these are discussed by Early Modern analysts of melancholia. Even the more extreme aggravations, such as psychosis, are discussed, as well as such variants as bipolar disorder.6 Indeed, the remarkable continuities between the ancient concept of melancholia and the contemporary concept of depression, in both their symptomatology and their classification as essentially biological phenomena, have served as the basis for several surveys of the history and literature of depression.7

Melancholia and Depression in Ancient Greek Medicine Ancient Greek analysis of human physiology, especially by Galen (129–199 AD), served as the basis for Renaissance understandings of melancholia.8 Galen adopted and developed an ancient idea that both body and mind were largely regulated by four physical, fluid elements: the ‘humours’ of blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile.9 Both physical and mental health were based on a proper balance, mixture or ‘temperament’ (crasis/syncrasis) of these four humours. Poor physical and mental health resulted from their imbalance (dyscrasis). According to Galen, the humours were metabolized from the primary product of digestion, lymph.10 Their function was to nourish the body by supplying basic material for tissue development. Black bile (melaina chole in Greek, melancholia in Latin) was derived from two main sources: first, from the intestinal tract as a normal, but essentially toxic, sediment or discharge, carried by the blood and tending to concentrate in the spleen; and second, from the body’s own heat. Both used and generated heat in the metabolization of blood, as did the liver in the metabolization of food. This process turned liquid blood into a vapour, a ‘spirit’ (pneuma), which was volatilized

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into the brain. This process that nourished the brain. However, imbalances in the body could result in an ‘immoderation of heat’. The result was over-metabolization, or ‘combustion,’ the product of which was a form of black bile called ‘adust’ melancholy. It collected with normally produced melancholy in the blood. When this happened, bile-tainted blood was vaporized and, on suffusing the brain, induced mood changes, anxieties, delusions and other symptoms of depression.11 Galen regarded black bile as the most toxic of the humours. Some bodies were supposed to have a propensity to generate excessive amounts of black bile. When too abundant, it was thought to upset the stomach (hypochondriasis) and create havoc in the mind. Galen noted that persons suffering from melancholia showed impaired judgement, clouded thinking, estrangement even from close associates, dejection, sorrow, fear, suspicion, irritability and suicidal ideation. These remained among the principal symptoms listed in sixteenth-century discussions of melancholia, as they do in contemporary expositions of depression. Finally, in addition to the physiological causes of melancholy, Galen recognized six environmental factors that trigger or alleviate the condition. These were the ‘non-natural’ (non-innate) factors of air, food, drink, activity (or rest), sleep (or wakefulness) and excretion (or retention).12 The health of a person was often dependent on these, and the ‘regimen’ prescribed to a patient generally affected his relationship to them. The doctrine of the six ‘non-naturals’ remained, with that of the humours, a major focus in discussions of the cause and cure of depression until well into the seventeenth century. Galen believed that a particular mixture of humours produced certain body- and personality-types. He wrote, ‘The four humours…contribute to the formation of moral characteristics and attitudes.’13 Believing that ‘the disposition of the soul depends on the constitution of the body’,14 Galen questioned the concept of moral responsibility and remained agnostic with regard to free will.

Melancholia After Galen and Into the Renaissance and Reformation By the end of Antiquity, Galenic traditions survived mainly in an attenuated form, and almost entirely within the Eastern Empire. Galen’s actual works passed with the Nestorians from Syria into Persia, where they were eventually embraced by Muslim physicians, who eagerly translated them into Arabic.15 As knowledge of Galen dwindled in the Greek world, and was extinguished in the West, the Greek monastic tradition developed traditions about acedia,

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a concept similar to Galenic melancholia, though having a different focus and a less extensive signification. Evagrius Ponticus (345–399) described acedia as a kind of listlessness, dejection and restlessness, indicating a weary disgust of monastic life. The concept was adopted by Cassian (360–435) who so promiscuously described acedia (as a ‘vice’, a disease and a demon) that it is difficult to know into what category it principally falls. Gregory the Great (540–604) placed ‘dejection’ (tristitia), a Latin term which he invested with many of the qualities of acedia, squarely on his list of seven cardinal sins. The ambivalent attitude toward acedia and tristitia, by which they were discussed in terms sometimes of sin and sometimes of disease, continued into the High Middle Ages. Not surprisingly, when a sufferer’s depression was seen in terms of sin, he or she was more harshly treated than one whose depression was seen as a disease.16 However, scholastics began to develop a number of distinctions between aspects of acedia that were essentially spiritual, and those that were essentially physiological. These distinctions were inherited by Protestants who developed them into a carefully defined system. In Roman Catholic theology, wherever the influence of the monastic theological tradition remained strong, acedia retained an essentially sinful element foreign to Protestant pastoral theology. In the eleventh century, Galen’s works began to be translated from Arabic into Latin. By the High Middle Ages, they were well known in the West. With the fall of Constantinople in 1453, refugee scholars acquainted Latin Christians with Galen’s works in the original Greek. Many scholars set to work making new, accurate translations of Galen into Latin. In this way, Galen’s analysis of depression became virtually common-place knowledge, and furnished the basis for understanding this form of mental illness.

The Spiritual Dimension of a Physiological Disorder English pastors of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries overwhelmingly conceived of melancholy in essentially the same physical and somatic terms. Yet they also recognized that depression had a spiritual dimension. How they defined this dimension is conveniently set out in a relatively brief but comprehensive chapter in Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy.17 For Burton, melancholy is part and parcel of that general misery due to all humankind both for the fall of Adam as well as for individual sins.18 Otherwise, tribulations are intended to develop and exercise our virtues and to correct our ignorance.19 The instruments of divine punishment and discipline, the ‘instrumental causes’ of our infirmities, are the elements of the natural world. These ‘were once good in themselves’. That many of them are

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now ‘pernicious’ to us ‘is not in their nature, but our corruption’. The fall of Adam has in fact ‘changed’ nature, so that ‘the earth [is] accursed, the influence of stars altered, the four elements, beasts, birds, plants, are now ready to offend us’.20 Whatever the proximate causes of diseases like melancholy, the ultimate causes are Adam’s fall, our sinfulness and God’s vengeance and discipline.21 The other spiritual dimension of melancholy, as in all weaknesses and afflictions not sinful in themselves, is that the devil can take advantage of our misery by tempting us to sin.

Melancholia and Depression in Pastoral Practice: William Perkins The first book of William Perkins’s Whole Treatise of the Cases of Conscience (1606) is devoted to questions concerning conversion, assurance and remedies to various kinds of doubts and distress that tend to destroy peace of mind and endanger faith.22 There are three considerations that especially pertain to conversion and assurance: first, what one must do ‘that he may come into the favour of God’; second, how one may be assured that one is genuinely converted; and third, how one may be recovered when one has fallen into sin or is distressed in conscience or both. The discussion of melancholia occurs in relation to the third concern. After one has accepted Christ as one’s saviour, there are two principal means of assurance that one’s adoption is real and one’s conversion sincere. The first is a direct intuition of the Holy Spirit ‘dwelling in us and testifying unto us that we are God’s children’.23 The second is the ‘sanctification of the heart’.24 However, a Christian’s sense of assurance can still be shaken by ‘distress of mind’, which occurs ‘when a man is disquieted and distempered in conscience, and consequently in his affections, touching his estate before God’.25 This distress can take either the less serious form of fear or the more serious form of despair. All distress of mind arises from temptation, of which there are two kinds. The first is by means of ‘trial’, which tests the strength of the grace within a person. There are likewise two kinds of trial; ‘combats of the conscience’ directly and immediately with the wrath of God, and ‘outward affliction’, by which God ‘maketh proof of the faith of his children’.26 The second kind of temptation is by ‘seducement’, by which humans are ‘enticed to fall from God and Christ into any kind of evil’.27 Distress of mind arises from five different causes. First is ‘divine temptation’, ‘a combat with God himself immediately’, arising when ‘the conscience speaks some fearful things of God, and withal the party distressed feels some evident tokens of God’s wrath’. This ‘combat’ occurs through

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the consciousness, or perhaps the repressed consciousness, of sin. Second is outward affliction, which befalls one either as a punishment for sin, or as a form of discipline, a trial of grace. Third is when a person is ‘troubled in his mind with blasphemous cogitations directly against the majesty of God’, arising sometimes from the suggestion of the devil, sometimes from living in an impious environment and sometimes from weariness of serving God (acedia). The fourth cause arises from the commission of particular sins and takes the form of ‘fears and terrors of the conscience, by doubtings of the mercy of God’. The fifth and last cause arises from one’s own body. It is in this connection that Perkins discusses the role of melancholy.28 Perkins begins his discussion of melancholy by posing the question of how the body, being an earthly substance, should trouble or annoy the mind, considering that the mind is not bodily, but spiritual: for nothing can work above it[s] own power, and it is against reason that that which is bodily should either alter or trouble a spirit.29

He responds that, although all actions proceed from the (immaterial) soul, they are performed by the instrumentality of the material body. The soul’s acts of sensation, imagination, memory and reasoning are carried out by means of the brain, and its affections by means of the heart, no differently than the nourishment of the body is carried out by the liver. Just as defective tools will prevent an artist from exercising his highest skills and abilities, so defects of bodily organs prevent the soul from carrying out its work more perfectly: The body, being corrupted, hinders the work of the soul, not by taking away… the ability of working, but by making it to bring forth a corrupt work, because the instrument it useth is corrupt and faulty.30

Perkins defines melancholy, as Galen does, physiologically: It is a kind of earthy and black blood, specially in the spleen, corrupted and distempered, which, when the spleen is stopped [blocked], conveys itself to the heart and the brain, and there partly by its corrupt substance and contagious quality, and partly by corrupt spirits [vapours], annoyeth both heart and brain, being the seats and instruments of reason and affections.31

Perkins noted that ‘there is no humour, yea nothing in man’s body, that worketh so strange effects, as this humour hath, being once distempered’. He admits a potentially demonic aspect to this natural, bodily substance. In this, however, Perkins is simply accepting that the devil can take advantage of any infirmity or adversity to tempt or torment fallen humans.

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According to Perkins, the first effect of melancholy is on the brain, where it ‘corrupts’ the imagination and ‘makes the instrument of reason unfit for understanding and sense’. Perkins offers the extreme example of Nebuchadnezzar—a case of what today might be called psychotic depression—who was ‘so bereft of his right mind, that he carried himself as a beast’.32 Perkins rejects the idea that Nebuchadnezzar had literally been changed into an animal, or that his human soul had been exchanged for that of an animal. He sees Nebuchadnezzar’s bestiality as a melancholic delusion. The second effect of melancholy is on the heart. Perkins believed that the heart responded to whatever the brain conceived, either through sensation or imagination. When the mind affected by melancholy conceived ‘fearful thoughts,’ the heart correspondingly produced ‘exceeding horrors, fears and despairs, even of salvation itself’, and did so even if the conscience was untroubled by the consciousness of sins.33 As melancholy can provoke fear for one’s salvation, is there any difference between it and trouble of conscience? Perkins believes that there are three major distinctions between melancholia and genuine, spiritual ‘trouble of mind/conscience’. First, when the conscience is troubled, the affliction itself is ‘in the conscience’. In melancholy, it is primarily in the imagination. More precisely, in true affliction of conscience, there is a consciousness of sin corresponding to a sin actually committed, whereas in a melancholic disturbance, the conscience is disturbed by imaginary sins and ‘fained causes’.34 Also, a normal person troubled in conscience, while afraid of God’s wrath, retains his courage in other matters, while the melancholic tends to have a groundless, generalized anxiety, extending far beyond fancied sins. Finally, melancholy can be cured by medication but distress of conscience can be cured by nothing except ‘the blood of Christ and the assurance of God’s favour’.35 Once the pastor has determined that the case is one of melancholy rather than of true distress of conscience, what must he do? Perkins has several suggestions. The first is that the melancholic, having a limited ‘reality factor’, should be advised to submit himself to the judgement of other saner persons. Next, if the melancholic is a ‘carnal’ (unconverted) person, there should be some attempt to bring him to a true, as opposed to an imaginary, consciousness of his sins, so ‘that his melancholy sorrow may be turned into a godly sorrow’.36 If the melancholic is already a faithful believer, the pastor should encourage and comfort him with ‘certain merciful promises of God’, such as James 4:8, ‘Draw near to God and He will draw near to you’ or 2 Chr. 15:2, ‘The Lord is with you while you are with him and if you seek him, he will be found of you’. Perkins, however, recognizes there is a defect in these two

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treatments, ‘[T]hough the former promises may stay the mind, yet will they not take away the humour, except further help be used.’ That further help is the art of Physick [medical attention], which serves to correct and abate the humour, because it is a means, by the blessing of God, to restore the health and to cure the distemper of the body.37

It should be noted that the first two approaches are meant to exploit whatever consciousness the melancholic might have of an actual sin, either to precipitate a conversion or to deepen the devotion of one already converted. These approaches do not differ from pastoral practices intended to produce (with the help of the Holy Spirit) the same effect on non-melancholic persons. The advice Perkins offers to the melancholic as a melancholic is to submit to what today would be called a medical professional. In other words, genuinely spiritual ‘true trouble of mind’ is the province of the pastor. Depression is the province of a doctor.

Depression According to Other Pastors The distinction between spiritual ‘trouble of mind’ and somatic melancholia found in Perkins was typical of pastoral attitudes throughout the seventeenth century. Many pastors dealt with depression in sermons and published works; and many discussed it with regard to different situations, approaching it from slightly different directions. The ministers discussed below were among the most celebrated for the practical, pastoral nature of their writing. Robert Bolton was Rector of Broughton, Northamptonshire.38 After discussing how the good news of redemption by Christ is to be applied to those troubled in conscience, he warns against two circumstances in which attempts to apply this message are inappropriate and pointless. The second of these is in the case of ‘terrors and mists of a melancholic humour in the brain, which cause a man to complain’.39 Although the devil might take advantage of the disease to tempt the sufferer, the problem is essentially physiological and medical, not spiritual. If the sufferer seeks help from some ‘man of God’ or ‘physician of the soul’, it is often for relief from the ‘uncouth horrors and heaviness’ that melancholia brings, not from any ‘purpose and resolution to become a new man and alter his courses’. For such a person, the message of sins forgiven through the sacrificial death of Christ is more or less irrelevant. In such a circumstance ‘let the art of physic be improved to abate and take off the excess and fantasticalness of this horrible humour’.40 Bolton closes his discussion of melancholia with the typical distinction between melancholy and spiritual distress of mind:

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Terror for sin springs out of the conscience and from the smart of a spiritual wound there; melancholy dwells and hath its chief residence in the imagination, and uncomfortably overcasts and darkens the splendor and lightsomeness of the animal spirits in the brain.41

Jeremiah Burroughes expands on the subject of melancholy with a few points unique to him.42 To those who object that serious crises of conscience can cast repentant sinners into a state of severe depression, Burroughes responds that, although this is indeed so, it is not entirely undesirable. For God may ‘sanctify even that humour of melancholiness so as to further such a work as this’ (a crisis of conscience). Not only that, but an attack of melancholy can trigger a salutary though troubling examination of conscience in the same way as any affliction ‘to make men and women know themselves, and sin, and other things of their eternal estate’. In such cases, melancholy is ‘blessed’.43 Burroughes sees the power and effects of melancholy as not entirely negative: Melancholy in some inferior things is very useful; and the philosophers say, that the most eminent men in the world for great matters, were melancholy, because they were serious in their thoughts; whereas other men be of slight, vain, frothy Spirits. Many that never had melancholy, they conceive of things, and it passeth, and they never lay anything to heart, they never knew what it was for one half hour to be serious in their thoughts all their lives.44

To those who object that trouble of conscience is nothing other or more than depression, Burroughes draws several distinctions. Melancholy may be in those who are ‘grossly ignorant’, but trouble of conscience comes with some ‘enlightening work’. Melancholy develops gradually, but trouble of conscience often comes as ‘suddenly as lightning’. Melancholy is an ‘exceedingly confused state of mind’, but trouble of conscience is more clear and distinct. The more depressed someone is, the less one is able to bear ‘outward afflictions’; while the more troubled in conscience, the more one is able to bear them. Melancholy casts a ‘dullness’ over the human spirit, while trouble of conscience puts a ‘mighty activity’ upon it. Finally, trouble of conscience and melancholy are cured in completely different ways: one by the gospel, the other by ‘time and medicine’.45 In his sermons on Psalm 42:11, Christopher Love touches on melancholy not in relation to trouble of conscience specifically, but with regard to that sense of divine desertion, when one feels oneself without God’s ‘love and favour’, whether or not one suffers ‘trouble of mind’.46 Love recognized, as did Burton, that, although melancholy is a physical condition chiefly affecting the blood and the brain, it can affect the soul. A sense of God’s desertion cannot only be aggravated by melancholy, it can even be caused by it:

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BRAD WALTON It comes from the prevalence of natural melancholy in a man’s body. The prevalence of melancholy troubles the fancy. It disturbs the reason, saddens the soul and clothes it in mourning weeds. And when these meet together it must cast the man down and suspend the sense of God’s favour from him. Melancholy is the mother of discomfort and discontent; it is the nurse of doubts.47

Once melancholic pessimism and paranoia set in, a sense of God’s absence can be turned into a suspicion, even a conviction, of his positive enmity and one’s own guilt. ‘There is a natural distemper in the body that is the cause of melancholy, yet trouble of conscience, doubtings, and distress of spirit are the companions of it.’48 Love recognizes other causes of a sense of desertion, both internal (carnal security, laziness in the exercise of grace or holy duties, the search for grounds of comfort rather than for the need of grace) and external (God and the devil), but melancholia is the first cause. It is not surprising that, in his voluminous pastoral works, Richard Baxter has occasion to speak of melancholy.49 In God’s Goodness Vindicated, he discusses melancholy as a fear-inducing psychosis that triggers blasphemy. He notes that, with depressed people, ‘the greatest difficulty lyeth, in making them capable to receive plain truths’.50 The reason is that ‘this unhappy disease…is first seated in the organs of imagination and passion both, in the very imagining faculty itself’, thereby producing terrifying illusions that seem real. Melancholy ‘breeds and feeds’ dark and delusive thoughts ‘as naturally as a carcass feedeth vermine’.51 For Baxter the majority of depressives are so harried with anxiety and fear that, finally cracking under the pressure of their dire apprehensions of imminent spiritual ruin, they end in blasphemy. The trick is to convince melancholics they are actually sick, which ‘they will not believe at all’; that their perceptions and feelings are warped by a physical condition, ‘for a melancholy man is like the eye that looketh on all things through a colored glass, or in an ophthalmy [lens], and seeth them according to the medium’.52 In addition, melancholics do not believe their fears and blasphemies are irrational. But how were they to be convinced? First, Baxter advises that they be calmed by company, conversation, activity, experienced medical advice and medication. Second, the false opinions they have conceived must be dealt with by means of philosophical and theological arguments supporting the goodness and mercy of God, of which Baxter suggests twenty-one. Timothy Rogers, a dissenting clergyman, ministered mainly in London.53 At about age thirty he succumbed to a major depression which lasted about two years, and which was to return periodically thereafter. In 1691, he published A Discourse on Trouble of Mind and the Disease of Melancholy.54 His book, unsurprisingly given Rogers’s personal experience, is remarkable for its vivid and sympathetic descriptions of severe depression. For those who suffer

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from it, melancholia, he says, is ‘one of the worst distempers to which this miserable life is obnoxious; it seizes on the brain and spirits, and incapacitates them for thought or action; it confounds and disturbs all their thoughts, and unavoidably fills them with anguish and vexation, of which there is no resemblance to any other distemper, unless it be that of a raging fever.’55 Melancholics are ‘wounded in both soul and body.’ The disease ‘tears them to pieces every moment; every moment it preys upon their vitals, and they are continually dying, yet cannot die.’56 Depression, for Rogers, is particularly recalcitrant to treatment: When this ugly humour is deeply fixed and has spread its malignant influence over every part, ‘tis as vain a thing to strive against it as to strive against a fever, a pleurisy, the gout, or the stone.57

Depression is also more ‘formidable’ than any other disease because it lasts so long. ‘It is a long time before it come to its height, and usually as long ere it declines again; and all this long season of its continuance is full of fear and torment, horror and amazement’.58 Typically, Rogers understands depression, in its origins, as a physical rather than a psychological or spiritual affliction, though its effects on the mind are grievous.59 He knows of no medications that can remove melancholy, but advises the sufferer to seek medical, not spiritual, assistance, especially from doctors who have themselves been sufferers, ‘for it is impossible fully to understand the nature of it any other way than by experience’.60 Rogers’s attitude to pastoral practice is what today we would call ‘holistic’. His approach is not atypical. Rogers approvingly quotes the view of an earlier pastor, Richard Greenham: If a man who is troubled in conscience come to a minister he will likely look to the soul and not at all to the body; if that same man goes to a physician, he will likely consider the body and neglect the soul. For my part, I would never despise the physician’s counsel nor neglect the minister’s labour, because, the soul and body dwelling together, it is convenient that as the soul should be cured by the Word, prayer, fasting, or comforting, so the body must be brought into some temperature by medicine and diet, harmless diversions, and such like ways.61

Rogers advises the friends and counsellors of depressives not to use ‘harsh speeches’ and ‘rigorous discourse’. Harsh treatment will ‘merely pour oil on the flames and chafe and exasperate their wounds instead of healing them’.62 In addition, severe counsellors will cause many sufferers to ‘cherish and conceal their troubles to their greater torment’. People who have never experienced depression must do the sufferers the kindness ‘to believe what they say’:

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BRAD WALTON It is a foolish course which some take with their melancholy friends, to answer all their complaints and moans with this: ‘That is nothing, but fancy, nothing but imagination and whimsy.’ This is a real disease, a real misery with which they are tormented.63

The devil’s work, which is the spiritual side of depression, is specifically to take advantage of any deficits of faith, any consciousness of sin, which exist in all believers, with the grief, sorrow, dark imaginings and apprehensions, the free-floating sense of guilt, which is a natural part of depression. The result is an exaggerated lack of faith, an exaggerated fear of damnation and resentment against God: When we are compassed with the terrors of a dismal night, [the devil] is bold and undaunted in his assaults, and injects, with a quick and sudden malice, a thousand monstrous and abominable thoughts of God.64

It is important not to confuse the sorrows, fears and peevishness of the depressive with a devilish abandonment of faith and trust in God.

Religious Despair: Robert Burton Robert Burton concluded his Anatomy of Melancholy with a vast exposition of ‘religious melancholy’, of which the two principal manifestations are: ‘religion in defect’ (impiety and atheism) and ‘religion in excess’ (superstition and idolatry).65 Burton discusses the distinction between trouble of conscience and depression under the topic of (religious) despair.66 According to Burton, despair is of four kinds: secular or sacred, salutary or destructive. In spiritual matters, it is salutary when we ‘despair of our own means [in the matter of our salvation] and rely wholly upon God’.67 Destructive spiritual despair is either ‘temporal’ (temporary) or ‘final’. He explains that final is incurable, which befalleth reprobates; temporal is a rejection of hope and comfort for a time, which may befall the best of God’s children, and it commonly proceeds from weakness of faith.

This latter despair, though temporary, is yet ‘a grievous sin’; and, so long as life lasts, may be feared as potentially ‘final’. It is ‘the murderer of the soul, as Austin terms it, a fearful passion, wherein the party oppressed thinks he can get no ease but by death, and is fully resolved to offer violence unto himself’. What causes so dangerous a degree of religious despair? The distant cause is, as usual, the devil, whose threatening suggestions working on the conscience can drive a believer to despair. The ‘ordinary engine’ by which he

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produces this effect ‘is the melancholy humour itself’, the balneum diaboli (‘devil’s bath’). Burton notes: Black choler is a shoeing-horn, a bait to allure them, insomuch that many writers make melancholy an ordinary cause and a symptom of despair, for that such men are most apt, by reason of their ill-disposed temper, to distrust, fear, grief, mistake, and amplify whatsoever they preposterously conceive or falsely apprehend.68

He cites the Spanish theologian, Martin de Azpilcueta (‘Navarrus,’ 1491– 1586) to the effect that an over-scrupulous conscience springs from a natural defect, that is, a melancholic disposition.69 However, just as melancholy and ‘trouble of mind’ are not the same thing, so melancholy differs from religious despair. Melancholy ‘fears without a cause’, while despair fears ‘upon great occasion’ (upon consciousness of a serious sin, and a questioning of God’s mercy, into which even the faithful can sometimes fall). Nevertheless, a depressive disposition, affecting as it can both emotions and intellect (especially if aggravated not only by consciousness of sin, but also by external afflictions), can churn up natural fears and doubts into a perfect storm of terror and desperation.70 Burton discusses a topic which rarely received explicit or extensive treatment: how religion itself can sometimes trigger depression and spiritual despair. He notes that certain practices, such as solitude, excessive fasting and meditation, can encourage the development of melancholia, leading to spiritual sorrow, fear and despair. The meditation most dangerous to spiritual people is usually that on ‘God’s judgements’ and especially the Last Judgement. There are also passages of scripture which can precipitate depression. These include ‘many are called but few are chosen’; ‘work out your salvation with fear and trembling’; ‘straight is the way that leads to heaven, and few there are that enter therein’; and ‘whom he hath predestined, he hath chosen’. Certain doctrines can trigger depression, fear, sorrow and despair. The first is that of election and predestination. The Thirty-Nine Articles had declared that as the godly consideration of Predestination, and our election in Christ, is full of sweet, pleasant, and unspeakable comfort to godly persons, and such as feel in themselves the working of the Spirit of Christ… so, for curious and carnal persons…[it] is a most dangerous downfall.

Burton takes a similar view: [E]lection, predestination, reprobation, preposterously conceived, offend divers, with a deal of foolish presumption, curiosity, needless speculation, contemplation,

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In other words, if predestination and election are properly sought as the correct end, in one’s own heart, in the evidences, however meagre, of faith and love, it ought to be a comforting doctrine, indicating that the process ultimately depends on God’s infallibility and omnipotence, not on one’s own fallibility and weakness. But if predestination and election are somehow sought in the mysterious abyss of God’s inner life, or amid complex speculations on grace, free will and perseverance, or in arbitrary signs cooked up by theologians, the result is likely to be terror and despair.71 Certain pastoral practices also trigger depression and despair. Burton identifies ‘thundering ministers’ as ‘a most frequent cause… of this malady’.72 Burton, citing Bernard of Clairveaux, declares that the preacher should not speak of judgement without mercy.73 He finds both Catholics and Protestants equally culpable. The former ‘terrify men’s souls with purgatory, tales, visions, apparitions, to daunt the most generous souls’. The latter speak so much of election, predestination, reprobation ab aeterno, subtraction of grace, preterition, voluntary permission, etc., by what signs and tokens they shall discern and try themselves, whether they be God’s true children elect, an sint reprobi, praedestinati, with such scrupulous points, they still aggravate sin, thunder out God’s judgements without respect, intempestively rail at and pronounce them damned in all auditories, for giving so much to sports and honest recreations, making every small fault and thing indifferent and irremissible offence, they so rend, tear and wound men’s consciences, that they are almost mad, and at their wit’s end.74

Worst of all, it is often the most ‘devout’ and ‘precise’, the very persons who regularly attend sermons, and have the most tender and vulnerable consciences, who are the most liable to be cast into depression and despair by such preaching. Burton concludes his discussion of religious melancholy with a long disquisition on the cure of depression, spiritual anxiety and despair. He cites a number of the pastors discussed above, in particular Greenham, Perkins and Bolton. He follows them in distinguishing religious ‘trouble of mind’ from the disease of melancholy. He also discusses by what pastoral steps and spiritual counsels trouble of conscience is to be allayed, and by what medications and environmental adjustments depression is to be relieved.75

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Conclusion The pastors of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries understood depression as a disease. Like all human diseases, it was an inheritance of Adam’s fall. Like all adversities, it could be an occasion of temptation. In these respects, depression, like all natural and human phenomena, had a religious dimension. Nevertheless, depression was not understood per se as a spiritual or moral problem, but as a physiological and medical one. The sixteenth-century categorization of depression as a disease, and its understanding of its physiological nature and aetiology, were based on the work of Galen, whose texts served as the cornerstone of European medical thought from the High Middle Ages into Early Modernity. As depression brought on mental torments which the sufferer frequently articulated in religious terms, Early Modern theologians and pastors took great care to distinguish between mental distress which was of a specifically spiritual, and that which was of a medical, character. The former was dealt with by exhortations based on Christ’s atoning sacrifice and its application to the individual person. The latter was referred to a physician. Sometimes, perhaps often, there was overlap. Depression might be triggered by consciousness of a particular sin, but even where sorrow for that sin was reasonably sincere, the anxiety involved could be so overwhelmingly acute that the sufferer could find no reassurance in talk of the efficacy of Christ’s salvific work, the inexhaustibility of God’s mercy or his tenderness toward repentant sinners. In such cases, the educated, Early Modern pastor had been trained to categorize the sufferer’s trouble as neither spiritual, nor even psychological, but psychiatric. With the triumphs of Freud, psychoanalysis, and the idea that psychiatric disturbances were the results of environmental and interpersonal influences to be countered by the courageous recognition of the originating traumas, a certain psychologized psychiatry prevailed during the twentieth century.76 Melancholics and depressives were dismissed as morally and intellectually flawed, and, as the perversely stubborn victims of cowardly anxieties and absurd delusions, came to be viewed with a certain degree of ill-concealed contempt. The current biologically-based theories as to the nature and aetiology of depression bear a much closer resemblance to sixteenth- than to twentieth-century views, and have produced correspondingly more humane attitudes to depressives than we have seen for at least a century, if not longer.

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Notes 1. Anastasios Georgotas, ‘Evolution of the Concepts of Depression and Mania’, in Anastasios Georgotas and Robert Cancro, eds, Depression and Mania (New York: Elsevier, 1988), 4. 2. Ibid. 3. See comment on 1 Sam. 16:16, in Matthew Poole, English Annotations on the Holy Bible, 2 vols (London, 1683). 4. Amy L. Sutton, ed., Depression Sourcebook, 3rd edn (Detroit: Omnigraphics, 2012), 6. 5. Ibid. 19–21. 6. Ibid. 20. 7. Stanley W. Jackson, Melancholia and Depression: From Hippocratic Times to Modern Times (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986), 29. 8. Arthur John Brock, ‘Introduction’, in Galen, On the Natural Faculties (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2006), ix. 9. Rudolph E. Siegel, Galen’s System of Medicine (Basel: S. Karger, 1968), 214–41. This synopsis of Galen is based on Siegel, and is necessarily simplified. 10. Ibid. 148. 11. Galen’s System, 151–78. See also, Rudolph E. Siegel, Galen on Psychology, Psychopathology, and Function and Diseases of the Nervous System (Basel: S. Karger, 1973), 134–72. 12. L.J. Rather, ‘The ‘Six Things Non-Natural’: A Note on the Origins and Fate of a Doctrine and a Phrase’, Clio Medica 3 (1968), 337–47. 13. Ibid. 238. 14. Ibid. 302 15. Brock, ‘Introduction’, in Galen, On the Natural Faculties, xix–xx. 16. Jackson, Melancholia and Depression, 75. 17. Robert Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy (Oxford: Henry Cripps, 1628). 18. ‘The impulsive cause of these miseries in man…, the cause of death and diseases… was the sin of our first parent, Adam.’ and ‘Are you shaken with wars... molested with dearth and famine, crushed with raging diseases…tis all for your sins.’ Burton, Anatomy, 1.1.1. 19. Ibid. ‘Chastisements are inflicted upon us for our humiliation, to exercise and try our patience… to make us to know God ourselves, to inform and teach us wisdom.’ 20. Ibid. 21. Ibid. 1.2.1. 22. William Perkins, The Whole Treatise of the Cases of Conscience (Cambridge: John Legat, 1606). See also, Michael Jinkins, ‘Perkins, William (1558–1602)’, ODNB, 2004; online edn, May 2007 ODNB). 23. Ibid. 75. 24. Ibid. 77. 25. Ibid. 88. 26. Ibid. 90. 27. Ibid. 28. Ibid. 106–99. 29. Ibid. 188. 30. Ibid. 190.

Pastors and Depression in Early-Modern England 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68.

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Ibid. 191. Ibid. 193. Ibid. 194. Ibid. 195. Ibid. Ibid. 196. Ibid. 197. ‘Bolton, Robert (1572–1631)’, in ODNB. Robert Bolton, A Treatise on Comforting Afflicted Consciences, Written in the Year 1626 (London: Tegg and Son, [1831]), 135. Ibid. Ibid. 142. ‘Burroughes, Jeremiah’, in ODNB. Jeremiah Burroughs, A Treatise on the Evil of Evils, or the Exceeding Sinfulness of Sin (London: Peter Cole, 1654), 412. Ibid. Ibid. 414–24. ‘Love, Christopher (1618–1651)’, in ODNB. Christopher Love, The Dejected Soules Cure Tending to Support Poor Drooping Sinners (London: John Rothwell, 1657), 57. Ibid. ‘Baxter, Richard (1615–1691)’, in ODNB. Richard Baxter, The Practical Works of the Reverend Richard Baxter (London: 1830), VIII.511. Ibid. Ibid. 512. See ‘Rogers, Timothy (1658–1728)’, in ODNB. A Discourse Concerning Trouble of Mind and the Disease of Melancholy, In Three Parts, Written for the Use of Such As Are, or Have Been Exercised by the Same, by Timothy Rogers, M.A., Who Was Long Afflicted with Both. (London: Thomas Pankhurst, 1691). Other editions were published in 1706 and 1808. Ibid. ii. Ibid. vi. Ibid. Ibid. iii. Ibid. Ibid. iv. Greenham, A Most Sweet Comfort for an Afflicted Conscience, 137. See also, ‘Greenham, Richard (early 1540s–1594)’, in ODNB. Sweet Comfort, vii–viii. Ibid. xi. Ibid. xv. Robert Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy, 3.4.1.1–3.4.2.6. See also, ‘Burton, Robert (1577–1640)’, in ODNB. Antatomy. 3.4.2.2–3:4.2.3. Ibid. 3.4.2.2. Burton quotes Zanchius here. Ibid. 3.4.2.3.

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69. Ibid. Conscientia scrupulosa nascitur ex vitio naturali complexione melancholica. 70. Ibid. Felix Plater (1536–1614), often cited by Burton (as here), was a Swiss physician who wrote extensively on psychiatric conditions. 71. Ibid. 3.4.2.3. 72. Ibid. 73. Ibid. 74. Ibid. 75. Ibid. 3.4.2.6. 76. Jackson, Melancholia and Depression, 389.

Lapsed Member and Penitent Convert: Reformation, Liturgy and Conversion in Ireland in the 1690s THOMAS P. POWER

In 1691, the bishop of Meath, Anthony Dopping, published A Form of Reconciliation of Lapsed Protestants, and of Admission of Romanists to the Communion of the Church of Ireland containing his proposals for a rite or form to be followed when lapsed adherents and Catholic converts were received into the Church of Ireland.1 Significantly, it appeared in the year after the victory of King William at the Battle of the Boyne. This essay probes the contents of the Form, the purpose of its author and its broader political and religious context. In his desire to rehabilitate lapsed members and accommodate converts, Dopping looked to precedents in biblical and Christian history. He cited examples of occasions when peoples joined the Jewish nation because of its witness to the dramatic and miraculous acts of God. In this way, former enemies became part of the Jewish nation. In the post-apostolic period, the Christian church attracted only a few followers for fear of persecution; but when it was legitimated, many pagans were attracted to the material and professional advantages it provided.2 Dopping believed similar circumstances prevailed in Ireland following James II’s defeat. Thus, those who were never part of the Church of Ireland and those who had fallen away from it, would be attracted to it: the latter out of a principle of shame and sorrow, and the former out of desperation, as being out of all hopes of seeing their religion to flourish again among us, especially since it received so remarkable a disappointment, at a time when they flattered themselves with the hopes of an entire establishment of it.3

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For this to occur, some form of penitential exercise for apostates and some rite of admission for new converts were necessary, the intention being that ‘the former may be brought to a due sense of their sin and danger, and the latter encouraged to continue in our communion’.4 On this basis, Dopping outlined historical precedents for the reception of penitents, their applicability to the church of his day and what forms might be devised for the purpose. He demonstrated that there were different categories of penitent depending on the gravity of their sin; particular parts of the church building where they were to be located as part of reception; and the particular dress, fasting, and demeanour necessary as indicators of penitence.5 Dopping advocated that the substantive elements of ancient penitential rites be retained because of their timeless quality. He favoured retaining confession, fasting and locating the penitent in a particular part of the church before admission. Since lapsed adherents and Catholic converts constituted two different categories, the liturgical rites for them should also be different.

Lapsed Protestants Who were these lapsed Protestants to whom Dopping referred? Why had they abandoned the Church of Ireland? Why did Dopping discern the need to re-attach them to the church in a formal way, and under what conditions? Before these questions can be answered one must remember that the conflict between James and William elicited different responses among Protestants: many fled Ireland for England; others, like Dopping, stayed and cooperated with the Jacobites while remaining loyal to the Church of Ireland; and others remained and succumbed to the circumstances. The common factor was compromise in a time of conflict. In his speech delivered to King William III near Dublin on 7 July 1690, Dopping defended the decision he and other clergy made to stay in the kingdom under James. In doing so, they did not compromise with the Catholic regime—except in cases where ‘prudence and self-preservation, such as were at once both innocent and necessary’ were operable.6 Rather, in the trying circumstances that prevailed, clergy resisted the encroachments of popery ‘by keeping up the publick assemblies, by sticking to our flocks, and preventing their seduction by the Romish emissaries’.7 While it is apparent that such ‘seduction’ did occur, its scale is impossible to quantify definitively.8 A contemporary Jacobite account of the different categories of Protestant in the country does not include one of converts to Catholicism.9 The incidence of converts from the Established Church was not so significant if one is to judge by the proceedings of synods of the Catholic Church in the 1680s,

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where such an influx might have been noted.10 On the one hand, someone like William King, in his State of the Protestants, minimized the significance of the phenomenon by referring to such converts as ‘lewd women and corrupted gentry’.11 On the other hand, among other instructions to the clergy of his diocese in May 1686, Dopping urged them to note those parishioners who, because of the pressures of the times, converted to Catholicism.12 These differing perspectives likely reflected regional emphases: King was writing as the bishop of Derry where Protestants were in the majority; while Dopping was writing from an area where they were in the minority, and hence more vulnerable to Catholic pressures. In sum, the numbers lapsing to Catholicism must have been of a sufficient quantity for Dopping to propose a formal rite for their reception back into the church. The reasons why Protestants apostatized ranged from a response to physical attacks on their churches to the lack of clergy in their areas who could provide pastoral services, inducements by Catholics, and a variety of local circumstances.

Attacks on Churches The wartime conditions induced fears among Protestants and a disposition to convert. In 1688, Narcissus Marsh, Bishop of Leighlin (1683–1691) recorded in his diary: I continued quiet in my bishoprick until King James came to the Crown, repairing churches, planting curates where wanting, and doing what good I could; but in a little time the Irish Papists grew headstrong and began to be very uneasy to us.13

Their fears were heightened when in December 1688, rumours circulated of a plan for a general massacre of Protestants.14 Despite reassurances from James, this only served to accelerate the Protestant exodus and to make those who remained vulnerable. The circumstances were not auspicious for placidity. In the latter half of 1688, there were fears of the arrival of William of Orange in England. On 8 October 1688, James issued a proclamation warning of an imminent invasion and encouraging his subjects to prepare to rebuff it.15 A further government proclamation followed a week later which sought to quell rumours and wild reports, its non-observance caused its reissue in early December.16 The source of unrest was a rumour of the supposed intention of Catholics and of Protestants to massacre one another.17 Such reports bespoke a volatile situation in the country in late 1688. This volatility was seen in the many instances of Catholics seizing Protestant churches that occurred between the revolution in England and the

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Battle of the Boyne in Ireland. Reports of disturbances caused by Catholics in Dopping’s diocese of Meath are first recorded in February 1686, and these persisted until later in the same year.18 Attacks on churches specifically appear to have started in late 1688. The first reports in early January 1689, concerned the seizure of the church at Great Island followed by that at Lynally, both in County Offaly, located in the diocese of Meath.19 In the case of Lynally, the local rector, Rev. William Coffey, reported to his bishop that ye priest of our parish, one William Sheil being denied the key of our church of Lynally on ye 19th of December [1688] last entered therein with…a dragoone and forcing open the door possessed himself thereof and by getting a new key made continues the possession thereof to himself and celebrates his Masse therein.20

The attacks on churches continued in February, with instances recorded for Cloyne, Waterford City (where the cathedral was occupied); and by April, churches at Carrigline, County Cork, had been seized, while another at Passage, County Waterford was demolished.21 The attacks on the churches in Waterford and Passage were carried out by French troops at the instigation of local Catholics.22 The bishop of Cork, Edward Wetenhall, reported in December 1688, that the seizure of churches in his area was conducted by the Jacobite peer, Lord Clare.23 In Killaloe diocese there were reports in February 1689 that Jacobite forces searched Protestants for arms while they attended Sunday service.24 By September, similar violent attacks were reported for locations in Westmeath; in October, for Dublin; and in November, for counties Carlow, Westmeath, and Kildare.25 The month of December 1689, saw a flurry of attacks and seizures of churches in locations in Counties Kilkenny, Kildare, Westmeath, and Waterford.26 Attacks and seizures of churches continued in the new year at locations in Longford, Laois, and Cork.27 There was also a seizure in Limerick City.28 So serious were the attacks that James, although reacting a year after they had started, issued a proclamation on 13 December 1689 forbidding the practice.29 It referred to the fact that several persons of late have ent[e]red into some churches within this our kingdom, wherein the Protestant ministers did perform their functions; and as we cannot but resent in a high measure their carriage and behaviour therein, as being done disorderly, and contrary to our many repeated declarations.

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Tellingly, the proclamation referred to the motivation for such requisition of churches as upon pretence of being deserted by the minister or incumbent thereof, or that the minister is become a rebel, or a traytor, or the church going to ruin or decay, without first making their application to us.30

James’ proscription had some success in Dublin; yet even there in February 1689, all churches were surrounded by Jacobite forces and their congregations searched.31 Attacks on churches and congregations, mostly in the midlands and south of the country, demonstrated that despite James’ assurances of protection, matters took a different course in the localities.32 Such attacks left Protestants with the option of fleeing to England until the conflict ended, surviving as best they could, or converting to Catholicism as the price they had to pay for remaining in their homes. Dopping was well informed about these attacks as his surviving correspondence contains numerous references to disturbances caused by Catholics and of attacks on Protestant churches, clergy and congregations.33 These reports gave him an understanding of the compromises such attacks induced among Protestants.

Absence of Pastoral Services The effectiveness of the Church of Ireland was directly related to its ability to provide pastoral services. In peacetime, that effectiveness was compromised partly by pluralism, and non-residence made adherents vulnerable to drifting towards Catholicism or Dissent. These tendencies were exacerbated once conflict developed. During the period of James’ rule, while estimates of the number of Protestants who fled to England are low, sufficient numbers left or took shelter in the larger towns to leave the church’s resources stretched and surviving communities of adherents vulnerable.34 For many, the absence of a clergyman forced them to make difficult choices.35 In May 1686, Lord Clarendon, commenting in a letter to the archbishop of Canterbury on the state of the Church of Ireland, noted the existence of absentee clergy whereby it ‘necessitates the people to look after a Romish priest or a nonconformist preacher; and there are plenty of both’.36 With clergy in short supply, local Protestants had resort to Catholic priests for their worship and eucharistic needs. In the case of the church at Lynally, County Offaly the church building was forcibly taken over and the Catholic priest installed. In such circumstances, local Protestant congregations may have continued their attendance in a familiar building, even though the mass was now being celebrated there—such attendance, in time, constituting adherence to Catholicism.

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In some cases, it may have been economically impossible for a rector or curate to remain; in other cases, the local rector was ejected from his living and the profits transferred to the Catholic priest. This occurred in Parsonstown where Rev. Crump abandoned his charge and the profits were seized by the Rev. Thomas Kennedy, the local priest.37 Such instances would likely lead to clergy abandoning their congregations, leaving them vulnerable to conversion. The unavailability or absence of clergy was further exacerbated when the clergy themselves converted. In December 1690, Bishop Marsh appointed a replacement to a parish in Queen’s County because Thomas Fitzgerald had abandoned the congregation and turned Catholic.38 In such circumstances, the congregation might be left with a choice: do without a priest or follow him, becoming part of his new Catholic congregation.

Catholic Inducements Another factor inducing conversion among Anglicans was the influence of Catholic clergy, particularly the regular clergy, friars and monks. Dopping supported an act of 1697 which legislated for the expulsion of Catholic clergy from Ireland. The measure was necessary, in his view, particularly in the case of regular clergy, as they having little to do and being generally men of more learning than the seculars, have more leisure and ability to pervert and seduce Protestants and to be contriving and designing how to increase their own party and lessen ours.39

Other conversions were, by report, induced by Catholic priests visiting among sick and dying Protestants in Dublin.40 Another circumstance that likely induced conversion was one where significant numbers of priests took in Protestant children to be their pupils, a practice that even the Catholic Church came to see as a serious problem.41 Synods such as that of Meath (1686), legislated against the fosterage by Catholic clergy of Protestant children.42 The apparent Jacobite policy of offering Anglican clergy who converted the right to retain the privileges of their livings, was another inducement to convert.43 Two noted cases of such are on record: Rev. Alexander Moore of the diocese of Connor in 1688, and Rev. Peter Manby, Dean of Derry since 1672.44 Charged by one commentator with being disappointed in his aspiration to a bishopric, Manby in 1686 converted to Catholicism, and received a dispensation from James to retain the deanery.45 Manby, seeing the advantage in an opportune conversion to Catholicism, became an informer, came under the protection of James and was rewarded with retention of the revenues of

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the deanery.46 Ostensibly Manby’s conversion occurred because of his contention that the Church of Rome was the one true church, based on its ability to trace its origins back to Christ, whereas the Church of Ireland could only do so back to the Reformation.47 This position provoked controversy about his motives for, and the timing of, conversion. These motives were ably uncovered by William King in An answer to the considerations which obliged Peter Manby dean of Londonderry in Ireland (as he pretends) to embrace what he called the Catholic religion (London, 1687). Another manifestation of denominational volatility was that of converts to the Church of Ireland reverting to Catholicism. This phenomenon centred on a group of clerical converts and students at Trinity College, Dublin, who had apparently converted to Anglicanism as part of their attendance there in the 1670s and 1680s. When James came to the throne, Narcissus Marsh, the provost of the college (1679–1683), reported that ‘most of those natives bred up in the college turn’d papists’.48 Among them was Paul Higgins, a convert priest, whom Marsh had employed to tutor Irish-born students in the college as well as give a monthly Sunday sermon in Irish in the college chapel, sermons that attracted at least 300 listeners.49 Similarly, John Mullan, a convert whom Marsh had employed in work of transcription, reverted to Catholicism at this time.50 He had entered Trinity College in 1673 aged twenty-three years, graduated with a BA in 1677, became a scholar and MA, and retained possession of a benefice in the diocese of Ossory following his reversion to Catholicism.51 Higgins and Mullin along with Andrew Sall, another convert priest, were associated with a project to translate the Bible into Irish at this time.52

Local Circumstances Dopping characterized those who lapsed as being influenced by ‘severe masters’, wives influenced by their husbands, those who did so for material advantage, and those who actively joined ‘with the Romanists in their violence against the Protestants’53—even though there were those who, after they apostatized, lived peaceably among their former co-religionists. As Dopping implied, the force of conflictual local circumstances inevitably acted as a catalyst to induce a denominational switch, the motivation for which was varied. Spousal pressure to convert may have resulted from mixed marriages between Catholics and Protestants. There is evidence of some concern on this score in the 1680s; but the problem was not new, and the concern of Catholic synodical legislation at the time was over proper licensing rather than rigid opposition.54 Such synods were concerned to curb the practice of Catholic

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couples resorting to a Protestant clergyman to perform a marriage in order to overcome their own church’s objection to the union because of impediments such as consanguinity.55 The issue related to parties who were non-Catholic rather than converts to Catholicism. On the matter of material advantage there is interesting evidence from Carlow. There Bishop Marsh in 1688 had to contend with a newly installed Catholic sovereign and burgesses in the corporation in the episcopal borough of Old Leighlin. They were intent on enriching themselves by dismantling the enclosures within the borough lands. One of the leaders of the party was William Cook, said by Marsh to be ‘a new convert to their religion’ and a newly created justice of the peace.56 Whether the result of opportunity, force or self-preservation, such cases may not have been isolated across the country at a time of conflict. Another manifestation of accommodation at this time is the impact of the influx of Scottish settlers. The pragmatic decisions required in specific pastoral situations are exemplified by the action of William King in the diocese of Derry. Following the siege of Derry in 1689, many Gaelic-speaking settlers from Scotland came to nearby Inishowen, County Donegal. At their request, King appointed two Gaelic-speaking ministers to serve them. Similar settlements by Gaelic-speaking Scots from the western isles of Scotland took place in north Antrim. Initially these settlers attended church services in the Church of Ireland, but it was later said, not understanding the divine service celebrated there, they soon went over to the communion of the Church of Rome, only for the benefit of such exhortations as the popish priests usually gave their congregation in Irish.57

Once Irish-speaking ministers were dispatched to the Scots of Antrim there were beneficial results—not merely in terms of a return of the defectors to the church, but also through obtaining some Catholic converts.58 These cases illustrate that linguistic accommodation could dictate denominational allegiance. The wartime context created denominational volatility. The motives for Anglicans lapsing varied from attacks by Catholics on local congregations to the absence of clerical pastoral care, to Catholic inducements, to the dictates and opportunities of local circumstances. Whether circumstantial, involuntary or complicit, a context of apostasy became a reality during the Jacobite period, a reality sufficient for church leaders like Dopping to respond to in the wake of the Williamite victory. It was his intent that the compromises made by Anglicans during the Jacobite regime be repented of and a new commitment made to the Church of Ireland.

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Form for the Return of Lapsed Protestants The intent of Dopping’s proposal was to facilitate the return to the Church of Ireland of those who had abandoned it during James’ reign.59 The form sought to ensure that repentance on the part of the returning lapsed member was evident, that catechetical instruction be undertaken so that the errors of Catholic belief were identified and refuted, and that a sincere motive was discerned through subscription to key theological tenets and their public affirmation in church.60 The procedure involved the penitent giving prior notice of his intention to seek reconciliation, whereupon the minister was to spend time with him to communicate the gravity of the offence. Thereafter, the penitent was to occupy a seat at the church entrance for one month so that his demeanour could be observed during the service. Thereafter, the penitent was to come to the church on the next Sunday and, standing at the church entrance, the minister was to invite him in, making clear that he had to attend on four Sundays. A sermon was to be preached outlining the Roman errors, the danger of continuing in such a church, the pardon available from God for those who truly repented, what must be done to effect it, and rules for the regulation of life. There followed visits by the rector to the penitent’s house, where the substance of the sermon was to be reviewed and the allocation of a day per week for fasting and prayer recommended. This was to occur in cases where the person concerned could read; in other cases, more intentional instruction was to take place, including the learning of some prayers by heart. The penitent was also to be informed that there was a further expectation of a public confession of the sin of abandoning the church, a public renunciation of the errors of Rome, and a promise made to continue in allegiance to the Church of Ireland, all of which he was to be apprised of beforehand. On the Sunday after the four Sundays, the penitent was obliged to subscribe and respond in person to certain forms, whereby he was received back into the church. He was to admit that he deserted the church ‘in the times of danger and affliction, [and] embracing the communion of the Church of Rome to preserve my selfe from trouble’; and, acknowledging this as a sin, he sought pardon.61 He had to make restitution to any Protestant neighbours he might have robbed—an act presumably facilitated by his adopted Catholic affiliation and associated with the activities of bandits, tories and raparees at this time.62 In order to ensure that reconciliation was not taken ‘rashly [and] unadvisedly, for worldly ends and secular respects’, but out of conviction, the penitent was required to publicly affirm the creed, renounce the errors of Rome,

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declare the reasons for abandoning the church, exhibit remorse and declare a desire to be readmitted to and resolve to remain in the Church of Ireland.63 He then read a public abjuration of the errors of Rome and signed it; and, following appropriate prayers, the penitent was formally readmitted to the church.64 The process was elaborate, lengthy and repetitive, yet thorough and intentional and requiring affirmation by word and deed. The substance of Dopping’s Form was incorporated into a version of the Book of Common Prayer (BCP) published in Dublin in 1700.65 Briefer than Dopping’s proposal, the BCP version referred to the reasons for lapsing as having emanated partly from being ‘overcome by the perswasions of popish seducers, but chiefly swayed by base fears of suffering persecution and losses for professing the true religion’. The penitent conceded his deserving to be denied by Christ on the day of judgement, ‘because I have denied his truth in the day of trial’. The penitent acknowledged that Catholic practices were not as satisfactory as ‘the priests made me expect I should find’. The penitent then vowed henceforth never to lapse again in such a way (‘whatever I suffer for it’) and begged to be received back into the Church of Ireland.66 The Form and its iteration in the BCP addressed the pastoral problem of apostates, a group created out of the conflict of the 1680s. Its inclusion in the liturgical instruments of the church, however, did not prove to be a guarantee against future lapsing as is evident from a government proclamation in 1706 prohibiting Protestants from converting to Catholicism.67 Nevertheless, in the context of the 1690s, it was a timely remedial measure designed to address a serious pastoral situation created by wartime conditions.

Dopping and Catholics Before 1691 Accommodating the return of lapsed members was one part of the Form; the other was accommodating the admission of converting Catholics. On the general issue of conversion of Catholics, Protestants in seventeenth-century Ireland differed as to whether it should be achieved through the medium of the Irish language or whether it should be part of a process of anglicization, that is, through persuasion or coercion.68 Approaches oscillated between rigidity in times of war and conflict (as in the 1640s and the period 1689– 1691) and accommodation in times of political quietude (as in the 1630s, 1670s and early 1680s). The period of the early 1680s was a time when a group of Irish Protestants adopted the approach of persuasion expressed in a project to translate the Bible into Irish. Its advocates were Robert Boyle, the scientist, and his sister Katherine, Lady Ranelagh, who co-operated in a project to publish the

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Bible in Irish and extend its use among Catholics.69 In this, they were assisted by Henry Jones, Bishop of Meath, and Narcissus Marsh, provost of Trinity College, Dublin, whom—as we have seen—was instrumental in promoting Gaelic scholars in the college. All concerned viewed the Irish language as the means to implement Protestantism among Catholics. Dopping’s involvement came formally when, with Jones’ death in 1682, Lady Ranelagh was instrumental in promoting him to the see of Meath. Promotion came with the expectation that he would be equally zealous in the cause of Catholic conversion through the Irish language as was his predecessor.70 While favourable to advancing the cause, Dopping had concerns about entrenched interests on the Protestant side that viewed any promotion of the Irish language as politically and culturally retrograde, contrary to statute and counter to the cause of political and religious reformation.71 Additionally, the challenge with a translation of the Bible in Irish was equally great on religious grounds since the power of the Catholic clergy over the people was so strong that any interest in conversion would be stemmed.72 Thus Dopping’s concern was not the worth of the translation project but the practical difficulties of implementing it. There can be no doubt that his position was dictated, on the one hand, by his sense of obligation to Lady Ranelagh to whom he was related and by extension to Boyle; and on the other, by his sense of the unpopularity of the proposal among the majority of Irish Protestants.73 Despite his initial reservations, Dopping continued to be supportive of the translation project to the extent of soliciting subscriptions for it from his fellow bishops, arguing that such an approach would prove more effective than legislation in spreading scriptural knowledge among Catholics.74 His optimism as to the favourable disposition of his fellow bishops was misplaced. For, though the work of translation was completed at Boyle’s expense, the distribution of the Irish Bible in Ireland was hindered by the non-cooperation of the bishops.75 Few of Dopping’s fellow bishops were favourable to missionary work in Irish, one exception being Thomas Price, Archbishop of Cashel.76 By 1686, Dopping’s active association with the project had ceased due to the negative response to his subscription appeal and an aversion among Irish Protestants to it.77 In addition, while he saw some legitimacy in the approach of persuasion, the accession of James II caused Dopping to adopt a more rigid attitude to Catholics, since their interests were openly favoured by the king. The experience Protestants had during 1688–1689 at the hands of Catholics, as described above, no doubt hardened his attitude further. The changed context following William’s military defeat of James allowed Dopping to advance his proposals contained in the Form for the conversion of Catholics.

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Form for Catholics Forms for the reception of Catholics were known in the Church of Ireland from an early period.78 The potential for the renewal of such a form came with the defeat of James II, an event seen as an opportunity to present the verities of Protestantism anew. Already, there were Catholics who turned Protestant—as a contemporary Jacobite account put it ‘to temporize during the usurpation’—who would need to be formally brought into the church.79 In Dopping’s view, these and other Catholics, since they had never been part of the church and hence were ignorant of its doctrines, ‘ought to be treated with more tenderness’ than the lapsed adherents.80 As a prerequisite, potential converts had to give notice to the minister of the parish of their intention to convert so that he could determine their sincerity of purpose and their awareness of the errors of Rome. If a potential convert was ignorant of the essentials of the Christian faith (and here Dopping remarked, ‘as I am afraid many of the Papists are’), the minister was to spend time instructing him.81 In cases where the prospective convert indicated some knowledge of the essentials of religion, then a mere determination of motive was sufficient. If the motive appeared sincere, then the minister was to determine in private whether he was implicated in banditry during the recent unsettled conditions, and if so, then to emphasize the seriousness of that sin and the need to make restitution.82 Then the aspiring convert was to attend at the church door and make an announcement to the congregation of his desire to be admitted. If consent was forthcoming, he was to enter and sit in the penitent’s seat whereupon the office similar to that for lapsed Protestants was to be recited. Thereafter, a period of fasting and prayer was recommended and a day appointed when the convert would recite a public abjuration of the Roman errors and make a solemn promise to continue in the Church of Ireland. On the appointed day, the procedure was similar to that for lapsed Protestants. There followed a profession of faith and a declaration before the congregation of motive so that any suspicion of ‘sinister ends and worldly respects’ would be discounted and instead evidence of ‘sober grounds and solid arguments of conviction’ be forthcoming.83 A series of questions followed that sought to determine levels of faith and conviction, involving a recitation before the congregation of the chief Christian beliefs, renunciation of the errors of Rome and a declaration of commitment to the Church of Ireland. Following collects and prayers, the candidate was formally admitted. The ceremony concluded with a brief exhortation to the convert to remember the precedence Protestantism had over Rome in ‘liberty of reading the Scripture

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and the benefit of the publick prayers in a known tongue’ specifically; to dispense with saints, angels, beads and medals, and instead rely on God alone; and to remain committed to the Church of Ireland particularly in light of the ‘loud clamours’ likely to emanate from former co-religionists.84 All this indicates that there was a level of seriousness about the exercise and that sufficient time and caution was taken so that sincerity of motive became evident. The openness to inviting Catholics to be part of the Church of Ireland was not based merely on security considerations articulated in the flush of military victory. The approach espoused in Dopping’s Form reflected a theological shift away from the original Calvinist emphasis of the Church of Ireland of the early seventeenth century, to one in the post-Willliamite era where salvation was no longer seen as a preserve of the elect but was now extended to Catholics upon performance of specified prerequisites and articulation of clear commitments.85

Use in Official Liturgy A version of Dopping’s Form was included in a Dublin edition of the BCP in 1700.86 In its instructions to the presiding minister, it references earlier canons as to the duty of ministers to educate Catholics on the errors of their belief. Without such preparation and admission of error, such reception would be a ‘solemn mockery’. Ministers who won over, or won back, individuals in this way were to send them to the bishop who, if necessary, would examine them further to determine understanding and sincerity of intention. The bishop was then to require each to subscribe to a form of renunciation of the errors of popery, renounce obedience to the papacy and to assign penance. A form of such renunciation for the laity was supplied for the bishop to use. It required the convert to renounce the mass as a sacrifice, belief in purgatory or transubstantiation; praying to angels or the Virgin Mary, images or relics; and denial of the cup in communion. It required acceptance of the Protestant version of the Bible in English and attendance on it either through reading or hearing it read. It required the individual to ‘lay aside all my beads and ave marias, and all prayers in an unknown tongue’. It required the convert to disassociate with priests and friars, and to encourage others to turn to Protestantism. An alternate form of renunciation intended for those of ‘more liberal education and better understanding’ was also provided for the bishop’s use. It included a specific abjuration of Catholic doctrine and practices, as well as of papal authority. With the reception of priests or ‘such who are likely to teach others’, an additional renunciation of the decrees of the Council of Trent that

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countered the Thirty-Nine Articles, the liturgy or canons of the Church of England, was required. In particular, the decree that claimed that there was no salvation outside the Church of Rome was to be renounced as ‘schismatical, unchristian, and devilish’. A commitment was required to undertake a study of scripture in English and of the church fathers in order to come to an understanding of Christian truth. Following the formal renunciation and its entry into a registry book in each diocese, periods of prayer, fasting and devotions were enjoined at the discretion of the bishop. The bishop was to supply a certificate to the penitent or convert to this effect, which was to be given to the rector of the parish. The educated convert was then to perform the renunciation again in the parish church during divine service on a Sunday to be specified in the certificate.87 The form assumed knowledge of the nature of the penitential on the part of the person, though at the time Catholics’ knowledge of their own sacrament of penance was superficial.88 The longer penitential rite for converting Catholics of ‘more liberal education’ conceded that a Catholic upbringing inculcated a prejudicial attitude towards Protestant doctrine and worship. For despite being unacquainted with the same, access to the Bible was restricted and church services were conducted in an unknown tongue. The entire religion was thought to be characterized by ‘ignorance, superstition, false worship, uncharitableness, enmity to the truth, and other evils abounding’. Such beliefs and practices were now to be confessed and renounced, and a resolve made to ‘never more be of confederacies or counsels with Roman Catholics;’ rather the penitent undertook to convert them. The penitent then sought admission to the Church of Ireland.89 Whichever of these forms was chosen (or another at the discretion of the bishop), the bishop would order the penitent to return it to the minister of the parish at least a week before the penitent was to be received. This would allow the minister time to prepare a sermon that would include an exhortation to the convert. Then, during morning prayer on the day appointed, the convert facing the congregation was to present the penitential statement to the priest. What followed could apply either to the lapsed member or the convert. The priest was to present the lapsed member or convert to the congregation in case there might be any crime or impediment to his or her reception into the fold. If there were, he was to report the same to the bishop; but if not, the minister proceeded reminding the person of the necessity of sincere motivation and genuine conviction. If this was not forthcoming or apparent, it was to be reported to the bishop. If conviction was evident, then the minister proceeded with the penitential rite which required the penitent to make a public confession of faith, and concluded with a benediction. The penitent

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then took his place in the church or at the communion table.90 While the procedural parts here may seem protracted, what is significant is the different stages whereby penitence and new conviction were affirmed.

Legacy of Use The inclusion in the BCP of elements from Dopping’s Form formalized its usage. Other publications of a catechetical nature appeared at this time that complemented the intent of the Form. Edward Wetenhall, Bishop of Cork, published A tried method of catechising in 1698, based on his marginal notes on the BCP catechism. Other bishops like Narcissus Marsh and Edward Synge also produced catechetical works. Translations of the BCP, or bilingual versions also appeared.91 Together these publications are reflective of a movement towards the general reformation of society in the 1690s. However, the inclusion of the form in the BCP was unauthorized. For it had not been approved either by synod or by convocation. When convocation did convene concurrently with parliament between 1704 and 1714, it did include proposals for converting Catholics as well as new canons to address the reception of Catholic converts and lapsed Protestants.92 Specifically, in October 1711, the lower house submitted to the bishops a form for the admission of Catholic converts and Protestant dissenters to the church, as well as proposals for the conversion of Catholics.93 There was a division between the upper and lower houses. Whereas the former insisted that when conversion took place it should be part of a larger assimilation process; the latter tended to favour use of the Irish language and materials like the BCP, the Bible and teaching in Irish.94 These developments parallel those in England. There a form for the reception of penitents was proposed in 1640, but was only printed in 1704. In 1713, convocation approved the preparation of an official form of reception; but, although completed, it was not authorized.95 In England, the formulation of a service for receiving Catholic converts came when one was prepared for the upper house of convocation in 1714, but this never received final authorization.96 In Ireland, since no formal approval for the inclusion of the form was forthcoming, and since convocation did not meet again, the unauthorized version continued to be used. During the eighteenth century, occasional forms continued to appear.97 One was included in Irish editions of the BCP until the middle of the eighteenth century. As well as the quarto edition of 1700, the form appeared as A Form for Receiving Lapsed Protestants and Reconciling Converted Papists to our Church in other editions of the BCP in Ireland in 1716, 1721 and 1750.98 There is no evidence that they received formal approval.

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Church Reform The existence of the form in the BCP cannot be considered in isolation from other circumstances pertinent to its use. The state of the Church of Ireland inhibited its effectiveness as an instrument for conversion. For since reform in its institutional structures and personnel was lacking, extensive conversion was elusive. Nevertheless, William’s military victory provided an impetus to a minority of bishops, like Dopping, who were keen to implement reform in the church.99 In his analysis of the condition of the church in 1697, Dopping identified key problems including insufficient clergy, paucity of Protestants, pluralism and non-residence, the want of churches, and the ruinous condition of existing ones.100 Pluralism and non-residence arose from small livings, the absence of glebes and houses, the lack of tithe payments, abuses in appointments to livings particularly by lay impropriators and the unequal distribution of livings. Many of these defects were attributable to the weakness of ecclesiastical jurisdiction. The solutions proposed by Dopping included a greater infusion of clergy from England to replenish Irish ranks, an increase in the value of livings and the union of parishes. To increase Protestant numbers, Dopping placed his confidence in statutory instruments that would limit Catholics in the legal profession, banish regular clergy from the country and impose fines on Catholics for non-attendance at church service. More constructively, he proposed that landowners be required to plant their properties with Protestant tenants who would in turn be required to have Protestants as the majority of their under-tenants. He proposed the transplantation of Catholics to reduce the assimilation of isolated Protestants. Though he conceded it was ‘harsh and unchristian’, he advocated the establishment of workhouses wherein the children of the poorer Irish would be educated in the Protestant religion and their names changed from Irish to English. While Dopping’s reform agenda sought to bring unity to the church, it signalled a return to a more coercive approach. Some of his proposals emanating from this shift were severe and impractical, displaying an overreliance on the state for their implementation. However, the state, though prepared to defend the church’s interests, did not promote its reform. Thus reform proposals failed largely because of the absence of royal support and resistance from the Irish parliament, which stance largely reflected the position of the church leadership as a whole.101

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Conversion Legacies With the church ill-equipped in terms of human, financial and physical resources, a concerted attempt at Catholic conversion was elusive. In line with a more coercive approach, Dopping abandoned any direct involvement in translation projects or methods of persuasion to convert Catholics.102 Indicative of this shift to a more coercive stance was the anti-Catholic invective of a sermon he preached in December 1691.103 The theme of the sermon was that Irish Catholic hatred of the English was implacable and irreconcilable. While these sentiments accorded with the belief of most Irish Anglicans, they ran counter to King William’s policy of relative leniency towards Catholics and resulted in Dopping’s temporary suspension from the privy council.104 Another indicator was Dopping’s strong support of legislation, passed by the Irish parliament in 1697, for the expulsion of Catholic clergy. For him such expulsion was a necessary prerequisite to the conversion of Catholics.105 In contrast, his fellow bishop, William King, opposed arbitrary anti-Catholic legislation.106 The Church of Ireland continued to be divided on conversion and the use of Irish for that purpose.107 There were some attempts to use the Irish language.108 Rev. John Richardson promoted the publication of an Irish version of the BCP (London, 1712), and also produced an Irish translation of sermons.109 Clergy in the diocese of Armagh, with the support of the primate, subscribed to a fund to ‘send some ministers of the Established Church amongst them who were well skilled in the Irish language, to read the scripture, common prayer and to preach to them in the language they understood’. The initiative met with initial success, but was halted when Catholic priests issued threats and excommunications.110 This experience confirmed the generally held view that priests were a prime barrier to conversion efforts.111 Convocation (1704–1714) considered proposals for conversion, but nothing resolute emerged.112 Archbishop King, reporting on its work in 1711, affirmed that there was no unanimity on conversion, yet convocation agreed on ‘the forms for receiving Papists and sectaries’ which in his opinion were ‘too straight’.113 Further, convocation did not have sufficient time to consider ‘the means of converting Papists’ and at any rate, commented King, ‘I did not perceive any zeal that way’.114 Episcopal caution about the costs, the intervention of party politics and rivalry between the lower and upper houses, frustrated conversion initiatives in convocation.115 In 1715, King commented summarily: The bulk of the common people of Ireland are either papists or dissenters, equally enemies to the established church: but the gentry are generally conformable, and the church interest apparently lies in them.116

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The eighteenth-century experience largely confirmed this observation.117 In the short term, only two instruments remained open to safeguard the Protestant polity: legislation and immigration. In lieu of failed efforts at persuasion, the initiative devolved on parliament. After 1691, laws were passed mainly by the Irish parliament to encourage the conversion of Catholics—particularly those of landed status. Further laws restricted Catholics’ carrying of arms; prohibited them from all professions, excepting medicine; excluded them from owning landed property, except on short-term leaseholds; and restricted education, domestic or foreign.118 Visitors to the country in the late 1690s were optimistic that penal measures would be effective.119 The intent of winning Catholic converts, whether through persuasion or legislation, was to neutralize the political threat and to increase Anglican numbers. Attempts to bolster numbers from another direction were evident in efforts to attract dissenters to the church through, for example, efforts to make the BCP more amenable.120 Though some bishops embraced the evangelism of dissenters, overall the approach again devolved on legislative enforcement, notably the imposition of the sacramental test, a measure Dopping supported.121 Archbishop King, himself a convert from Presbyterianism, believed that many Presbyterians could become Anglicans. As Bishop of Derry, where Presbyterians were numerous, he was active in evangelism through preaching, distribution of catechisms, sponsorship of Gaelic-speaking clergy, supporting efforts to publish an Irish translation of the BCP and publishing a tract denouncing Presbyterian forms of worship and organization.122 The majority of the Irish bishops and laity, however, while they might oscillate in their attitude to Irish Catholics, were resolute in their unfavourable stance towards dissenters.123 Complementary to these efforts, the Irish parliament passed legislation for the ‘encouragement of Protestant strangers’ as early as 1692.124 These were French Protestants, exiled from France because of their revocation in 1685 of the Edict of Nantes (1598) by Louis XIV. Dopping received donations in 1693 in support of these French Protestants.125 An estimated 10,000 of them came in the 1690s, and in time, were to form twenty-one communities around the country.126 Though such communities were seen as the source of potential members of the Church of Ireland and were encouraged to conform to its liturgy, those who chose not to do so were granted freedom of worship—though not any special favour, as were Quakers.127 After 1709, it is estimated that 821 Protestant refugee families (equivalent to about 3,000 persons) from the Rhineland palatinate in Germany came to Ireland.128 These accretions to Protestant numbers—though significant—did nothing to appreciably mitigate the minority numerical status of Protestants in the country.

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Conclusion As much ecclesiastical as political, Dopping’s Form of reconciliation sought to aid the return of apostates and to win over Catholics at a politically opportune time. His proposal embodied an attempt to restore order and unity as part of a wider vision for the Church of Ireland in the 1690s. As much remedial and strategic as forward-looking, the Form was premised on the fact that, despite military success, Protestants were still outnumbered. Its purpose of including Catholics in the church was to lessen the potential for their future disloyalty by binding them to the establishment. For Dopping, the means whereby the latter was to be achieved had shifted from the 1680s, when he supported translation efforts, to the approach expressed in the Form, a transition influenced by his experience under the Jacobite regime. The sincerity of the converts or lapsed Protestants was to be tested with rigour at a number of stages. The Form and its BCP iteration were more rigorous in determining the sincerity of the aspirant convert than the later penal laws since both sought to identify motive, conducive to understanding and commitment, and to discern sincerity of belief. In contrast, the laws were institutional and legislative, and hence induced strategies of avoidance, manipulation or insincerity.

Notes 1. Anthony Dopping, A Form of Reconciliation of Lapsed Protestants, and of Admission of Romanists to the Communion of the Church of Ireland. (Dublin, 1691). Copy in Marsh’s Library, Dublin. J. Hening, ‘A Note on Dopping’s Form of Reconciliation’, The Irish Ecclesiastical Record 103 (1965), 381–8, is an inadequate treatment. 2. A Form of Reconciliation, 1–5. 3. Ibid. 6. 4. Ibid. 7. 5. Ibid. 8–37. 6. The Speech of the Right Reverend Anthony, Bishop of Meath When the Clergy Waited on his Majesty at his Camp nigh Dublin, July 7, 1690 (London, 1690). 7. Ibid. 8. Cf. Short View of the Methods Made Use of in Ireland for the Subversion and Destruction of the Protestant Religion. (London, 1689), 5–6. 9. J. T. Gilbert, A Jacobite Narrative of the War in Ireland 1688–1691 (Dublin, 1892), 55–7. 10. A. Forrestal, Catholic Synods in Ireland 1600–1690. (Dublin, 1998), 75–131, 154–89. 11. W. King, The State of the Protestants of Ireland under the Late King James’s Government: In Which Their Carriage towards Him Is Justified, and the Absolute Necessity of Their Endeavouring To Be Freed from His Government, and of Submitting to Their Present Majesties Is Demonstrated (London, 1691), 234.

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12. Mark Eric Gilmore, Anthony Dopping and the Church of Ireland, 1685–1695 (MA thesis, Queen’s University, Belfast, 1988), 64. Gilmore does not treat the Form. 13. R. Wyse Jackson, Scenes from Irish Clerical Life in the Seventeenth & Eighteenth Centuries (Limerick, 1941), 20. 14. J. C. Beckett, Protestant Dissent in Ireland, 1687–1780 (London, 1948), 24. 15. James Kelly and Mary Ann Lyons, eds, The Proclamations of Ireland 1660–1820 (Dublin, 2014), II.67n. 16. Ibid. 67–70. 17. Ibid. 69. 18. ‘Collection Of State Papers Connected With Meath [...] Dopping Papers’, 3 vols (Armagh Public Library). The index assigns entry P001498149; Dopping Papers (hereafter DP) contained therein are nos 51–54, 56, 59, 61. 19. DP, nos 82–85. 20. Coffey to Dopping, 7 January 1689, in DP, 84. On http://www.rahanparish.ie/ the_old_churches_of_lynally_rahan.html). 21. DP, nos 87–9, 91, 94, 98, 109, 116; Gilmore, 45–7. 22. DP, no. 92. See also nos 121, 125, 127, 135, 142. 23. Ibid. no. 134. 24. P. Dwyer, The Diocese of Killaloe from the Reformation to the Close of the Eighteenth Century (Dublin, 1878), 387. 25. DP, nos 122, 123, 124, 126, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 137–8. 26. Ibid. nos 108, 112, 114, 115, 117, 118, 119, 136. 27. Ibid. nos 146, 147, 151. 28. J. Begley, The Diocese of Limerick in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Dublin, 1927), 491. 29. Proclamations of Ireland, 138–9. 30. Ibid., 139. 31. J. G. Simms, Jacobite Ireland 1685–91 (Dublin, 2000), 88; Gilmore, 51. 32. R. Gillespie, ed., Scholar Bishop: The Recollections and Diary of Narcissus Marsh, 1638– 1696 (Cork, 2003), 34–5; Gilmore, ‘Dopping’, 45 ff; Simms, Jacobite Ireland, 88. 33. Evident throughout the Dopping Papers. 34. The exodus is estimated to have been 5 per cent of the total population of around 300,000 or 15,000 people. R. Gillespie, ‘The Irish Protestants and James II, 1688– 90’, Irish Historical Studies 28/110 (1992), 129. 35. R. Mant, History of the Church of Ireland, 2nd edn (London, 1841), 684. 36. Beckett, Protestant Dissent, 23; Simms, Jacobite Ireland, 28. 37. Dwyer, Killaloe, 399–400. 38. Scholar Bishop, 26. 39. J. G. Simms, War and Politics in Ireland, 1649–1730 (London, 1986), 237. 40. Mant, History, 701. 41. E. MacLysaght, Irish Life in the Seventeenth Century (Dublin, 1979), 287. 42. Forrestal, Catholic Synods, 129. 43. Mant, History, 691. 44. Ibid. 692. 45. Ibid. 691–2. 46. K. Grudzien Baston, ‘Manby, Peter (d. 1697)’, ODNB, 2004.

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47. The Considerations which Obliged Peter Manby, Dean of Derry, To Embrace the Catholique Religion (Dublin & London, 1687). 48. Scholar Bishop, 64. 49. Ibid. 63–4. 50. Ibid. 64. 51. N. Williams, I bPrionta I Leabhar: Na Protastúin agus Prόs na Gaeilge, 1576–1724 (Baile Atha Cliath, 1986), 86, 197–8. 52. Scholar Bishop, 61–5; Betsey Taylor FitzSimon, ‘Conversion, the Bible, and the Irish Language: The Correspondence of Lady Ranelagh and Bishop Dopping’, in M. Brown, C. I. McGrath and Thomas P. Power, eds, Converts and Conversion in Ireland, 1650–1850 (Dublin, 2005), 164–5, 169–70; Williams, I bPrionta, 86. Sall died in 1682, and there is no evidence of him reverting to Catholicism. 53. Form, 44–45. 54. Forrestal, Catholic Synods, 105–6. 55. Ibid. 171–2. 56. Scholar Bishop, 69. 57. John Richardson, A Short History of the Attempts That Have Been Made To Convert the Popish Natives of Ireland to the Establish’d Religion (Dublin, 1711), in Williams, I bPrionta, 105–6. 58. Williams, I bPrionta, 106. 59. Dopping’s knowledge of canon law was evident in the text’s dependence on the Gelasian sacramentary: C. Jones, G. Wainwright, and E. Yarnold, eds, The Study of Liturgy (London, 1978), 225–6. The sacramentary is divided into three parts, the first of which includes a form for the reconciliation of penitents: J. Norman, Handbook to the Christian Liturgy (London, 1944), 86–8. 60. Unless indicated otherwise, the following section derives from the Form of Reconciliation. 61. Ibid. 57. 62. Éamonn Ó Ciardha, ‘Tóraíochas is rapairíochas sa seachtú haois déag’, History Ireland 2/1 (1994), 21–5. 63. Form of Reconciliation, 59–61. 64. Ibid. 62–9. The signed abjuration was to be entered in the parish registry and then forwarded to the bishop of the diocese in whose registry office it was to be preserved (ibid. 69). 65. ‘A Form for Receiving Lapsed Protestants, or Reconciling Converted Papists to our Church’, in the Book of Common Prayer and Administration of the Sacraments and Other Rites and Ceremonies of the Church according to the Use of the Church of Ireland: together with the Psalter or Psalms of David, Pointed as They Are To Be Sung or Said in Churches: and the Form and Manner of Making, Ordaining, and Consecrating of Bishops, Priests, and Deacons (Dublin, 1700). 66. Ibid. 67. Proclamations of Ireland, 586. 68. T. C. Barnard, ‘Protestants and the Irish Language, c.1675–1725’ Journal of Ecclesiastical History 44 (1993), 243–72. 69. FitzSimon, ‘Conversion’, 157–82. 70. Ibid. 166. 71. Ibid. 167–8.

130 72. 73. 74. 75. 76.

77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93.

94. 95. 96. 97.

THOMAS P. POWER Ibid. 168. Ibid. 169. Ibid. 172–3; Williams, I bPrionta, 83, 87. FitzSimon, ‘Conversion’, 177. He employed a Mr.Tiernan, a convert priest, to preach in Irish in Cashel Cathedral on Sunday afternoons to which came ‘a great concours of people of all sorts that understood Irish, wch he hop`d might conduce very much towards the conversion of the Irish Papists’. Scholar Bishop, 62. Price also promoted open-air preaching by his clergy of sermons in Irish to Catholics: E. Mac Lysaght, Irish Life, 308. Williams, I bPrionta, 87. With Boyle’s backing the project reached fruition and in 1685 the entire Bible was available in Irish for the first time in history. Ibid. 89. Bolton, 137. Gilbert, Jacobite Narrative, 190. Form, 43. Ibid. 71. Ibid. 73. Ibid. 79–80. Ibid. 84. R. Eccleshall, ‘Anglican Political Thought in the Century after the Revolution of 1688’, in D.G. Boyce, R. Eccleshall and V. Geoghegan, eds, Political Thought in Ireland Since the Seventeenth Century (London & New York, 1993), 42–3. ‘A Form for Receiving Lapsed Protestants, or Reconciling Converted Papists to Our Church’, in BCP (Dublin, 1700). Unless otherwise indicated, the following draws on this source. Ibid. The cost of the certificate was not to exceed one shilling, which sum the bishop supplied when the party was unable or unwilling to pay. Forrestal, Catholic Synods, 184–5. BCP (Dublin, 1700). Ibid. ‘“The Necessary Knowledge of the Principles of Religion”: Catechism and Catechizing in Ireland, c.1560–1800’, in A. Ford, J. McGuire and K. Milne, eds, As By Law Established: The Church of Ireland since the Reformation. (Dublin, 1995), 74–5, 84. G. Bray, ed., Records of Convocation XVII Ireland 1690–1869, pt 1 (Woodbridge, 2006), 9, 13, 16, 21. Ibid. 21. See ‘Forms for Admitting Converts from the Church of Rome…Agreed on by Convocation in 1711’ (PRO SP 63/368/1) and ‘Constitutions and Canons Ecclesiastical Treated on and Agreed on by Convocation, 1711’ (PRO SP 63/368/2), in Constitutions and Canons Ecclesiastical, Treated upon by the Archbishops and Bishops, and the Rest of the Clergy of Ireland. Dublin, 1864, 60–4. S. J. Connolly, ‘Reformers and Highflyers: The Post-Revolution Church’, in Ford et al, As By Law Established, 163. W. K. Lowther Clark, ed., Liturgy and Worship: A Companion to the Prayer Books of the Anglican Communion (London, SPCK, 1964), 725. Clark, Liturgy, 725; G. J. Cuming, A History of Anglican Liturgy (London, 1969), 178. Cuming, Anglican Liturgy, 169.

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98. F. R. Bolton, The Caroline Tradition of the Church of Ireland with Particular Reference to Bishop Jeremy Taylor (London, 1958), 48, 137; The Book of Common Prayer and Administration of the Sacraments (Dublin, 1716; Dublin, 1721); The Book of Common Prayer according to the Use of the Church of Ireland, 2 vols (Dublin, 1750–51), which has the form for receiving lapsed Protestants. 99. For reform issues that were a priority for Marsh, see Scholar Bishop, 38, 43, 46, 55. 100. J. Brady, ed., ‘Remedies proposed for the Church of Ireland (1697)’, Archivium Hibernicum 22 (1959), 163–73. What follows draws on this source. See also P. Loupès, ‘Bishop Dopping’s Visitation of the Diocese of Meath 1693’, Studia Hibernica 24 (1988), 127–51. 101. Gilmore, 148–60. 102. Gilmore, 193–4. However, even in the 1690s Dopping was providing financial support to Gaelic scholars like Roderick O’Flaherty. R. Sharpe, ed., Roderick O’Flaherty’s Letters to William Molyneux, Edward Lhwyd, and Samuel Molyneux 1696–1709 (Dublin, 2013), 92–3; J. G. Simms, William Molyneux of Dublin: A Life of the Seventeenth-Century Political Writer & Scientist (Dublin, 1982), 38. 103. J. I. McGuire, ‘The Irish Parliament of 1692’, in T. Bartlett and D.W. Hayton, eds, Penal Era and Golden Age: Essays in Irish History, 1690–1800. (Belfast, 1979), 3. It was an exposition of Psalm 129. 104. Gilmore, 131–7; Simms, Jacobite Ireland, 258; F. Waldmann, ‘Anthony Dopping’s Restoration to the Privy Council of Ireland: A Correction’, Notes and Queries 57/1 (2010), 69–70. 105. Simms, War and Politics, 237. 106. McNally, Patrick. ‘William King, Patriotism and the “National Question”’, in C. J. Fauske, ed., Archbishop William King and the Anglican Irish Context, 1688–1729 (Dublin, 2004), 53–4. 107. Eccleshall, ‘Anglican Political Thought’, 44–5. 108. The 1549 edition of the BCP was the first book to be printed in Ireland. Editions published in Dublin continued to appear (1552, 1604 and 1662). B. Mayne, ed., The Prayer Books of the Church of Ireland 1551–2004 (Dublin, 2004), 7, 11, 12, 14–16. Versions in Irish date to 1571, and there were other editions in 1608 and 1712. David N. Griffiths, The Bibliography of the Book of Common Prayer, 1549–1999 (London, 2002), 510, 512. The 1712 version was a translation by John Richardson and its production was supported by the SPCK with a view to its use in Scotland. Griffiths, Bibliography, 512. 109. Williams, I bPrionta, 104–18. Frances Hutchinson, Bishop of Down, produced a catechism and almanac in Irish. A. Sneddon, ‘“Darkness Must be Expell’d by Letting in the Light”: Bishop Francis Hutchinson and the Conversion of Irish Catholics by Means of the Irish Language, c.1720–4’, Eighteenth-Century Ireland 19 (2004), 37–55. 110. W.P. Burke, The Irish Priests in the Penal Times, 1660–1760 (Waterford, 1914), 284. 111. Synge, Bishop of Raphoe, to William Wake, Archbishop of Canterbury, 13 Apr. 1715, in Burke, Irish Priests, 202. 112. Williams, I bPrionta, 107–8. 113. In Bolton, Caroline Tradition, 47. Yet in over ten years of meeting, agreement on the new forms of prayer for admitting converts was among the very few achievements

132

114. 115. 116. 117.

118. 119.

120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125. 126.

127.

128.

THOMAS P. POWER of convocation. D. W. Hayton, Ruling Ireland, 1685–1742: Politics, Politicians, and Parties (Woodbridge, 2004), 138. Ibid. D. W. Hayton, ‘The High Church Party in the Irish Convocation, 1703–1713’, in Herman J. Real and Helgard Stöver-Leidig, ed., Reading Swift: Papers from the Third Münster Symposium on Jonathan Swift (Munich, 1998), 117–40. Mant, History, 293. T. P. Power, ‘Converts’, in T. P. Power and K. Whelan, eds, Endurance and Emergence: Catholics in Ireland in the Eighteenth Century (Dublin,1990), 101–27; idem, ‘“A Weighty, Serious Business”: The Conversion of Catholic Clergy to Anglicanism’, in M. Brown et al., eds, 183–213; idem, ‘Conversions among the Legal Profession in the Eighteenth Century’, in W. N. Osborough and D. Hogan, eds, Brehons, Serjeants, and Attorneys: Studies in the History of the Irish Legal Profession (Dublin, 1990), 153–74. M. Wall, The Penal Laws, 1691–1760 (Dundalk, 1961), 10–11; C. I. McGrath, ‘The Provisions for Conversion in the Penal Laws, 1695–1750’, in Brown et al, 35–59. John Dunton noted in 1698 that ‘the present Romanists who survive, their priests must conform to the protestant religion, or live and dye with out the exercise of their own’. Already, he noted, that ‘some of the papists lords have put their children to be educated in the protest[ant] faith; and severall gentlemen have lately abjur’d the Romish’. J. Dunton, Teague Land or A Merry Ramble to the Wild Irish (1698), A. Carpenter, ed. (Dublin, 2003), 159–60. A. E. Peaston, The Prayer Book Reform Movement in the XVIII Century (Oxford, 1940), 33, 34, 48. [A. Dopping], The Case of the Dissenters of Ireland Consider’d, in Reference to the Sacramental Test (Dublin, 1695). Christopher J. Fauske, ed., Archbishop William King and the Anglican Irish Context, 1688–1729 (Dublin, 2004), 7, 86. Hayton, Ruling Ireland, 40. McGuire, ‘Irish Parliament’, 16; Scholar Bishop, 46, 48. DP, no. 236. R.P. Hylton, ‘The Less-Favoured Refuge: Ireland’s Nonconformist Huguenots at the Turn of the Eighteenth Century’, in K. Herlihy, ed., The Religion of Irish Dissent, 1650–1800 (Dublin, 1996), 83–99; S. J. Connolly, ed., The Oxford Companion to Irish History (Oxford, 1998), 251. Beckett, Protestant Dissent, 35, 124–6, 130; J. Begley, The Diocese of Limerick from 1691 to the Present Time. (Dublin, 1938), 41–3; Proclamations of Ireland, 446–50. In 1704, a French translation of the BCP was published in Dublin for the use of such communities. La liturgie, c’est à dire, le formulaire des prieres publiques: de l’administration des sacremens, et des autres ceremonies & coutumes de l’eglise, selon l’usage de l’Eglise d’Irlande: avec le psautier, ou les psaumes de David, ponctuez selon qu’ils doivent être, ou chantez, ou leus dans les eglises. (Dublin, 1704). Oxford Companion to Irish History, 424.

Pioneer Irish Clergy in Upper Canada ALAN ACHESON

Irish immigration to Canada in the half century 1830–80, when acknowledged at all, has been misrepresented in point of both its scale and character. The Irish in Canada: the Untold Story addressed these deficiencies in its wide-ranging two volumes.1 Two contributors to that work, D. H. Akenson and Bruce Elliott have in their many publications exposed the myths uncritically imported from the Irish immigrant experience in the United States and evolved a factual analysis of Irish settlement in Canada. Both have shown that, with reference to the American myth of the urbanized Irish, both Catholic and Protestant Irish were predominantly a rural people whose pioneer work reduced a wilderness to cultivation. Akenson has established from the 1871 census both that the Irish were the largest ethnic component in Upper Canada at Confederation in 1867, and also that the ratio of 2:1, Protestant to Catholic, obtained among Irish immigrants both before and after the Great Famine.2 Elliott has shown that early nineteenth-century immigration from south-east Ireland produced a heavy concentration of Irish in eastern Upper Canada, achieved largely through chain migration. Among the pioneers were Irish clergy, seen by Akenson as a large and influential group, their presence all the more valuable in that Bishop William Bond of Montreal, a Cornishman, averred that the English were useless as pioneers in the Canadas.3 As it was, the Irish in 1871 numbered over forty per cent of the Church of England population in the new Dominion of Canada, provided much of its leadership, and determined its predominantly Evangelical ethos.

Patterns of Settlement The predominant presence and achievement of the Irish in the Ottawa valley during the mid-nineteenth century, notably in Carleton, Grenville, Lanark, Leeds, and Renfrew counties, is well documented. Fifteen townships had

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been opened for settlement along the Rideau River in the 1790s, with lands assigned to American settlers, many of them being United Empire Loyalists of mostly English but also other European ethnic origin. As they lived, however, in the townships fronting the St Lawrence and later Lake Ontario, and were not inclined to pioneer work ‘in the forested wilderness along the yet unnavigable Rideau’, the Rideau townships were long left unpeopled. This ‘state of nature’ changed when the Irish arrived, and with the construction also of the Rideau Canal that ‘marked the beginning of a new pattern of settlement in this region’.4 Central to it was the Irish practice of squatting on the lands of absentee owners and speculators. With the 1830s the peak period of Irish settlement, Akenson sees the landscape as transformed by the late 1840s by the ‘noteworthy aggressiveness’ of the Irish in filling in the vacant Rideau townships.5 Protestants from south-east Ireland came to dominate Leeds county, parts of Lanark, and much of the region generally. In twenty-three townships in the Rideau and Ottawa valleys, those of Irish ethnicity comprised at least sixty per cent of the population, with March, Goulburn, Huntley, and Marlborough more than eighty per cent Irish. The Scots, the next largest ethnic group, comprised more than sixty per cent in only three sparsely populated townships.6 In the 1871 census, the Irish made up fifty-four per cent (92,802 of 171,327) of the population of the five counties, equal in number to that of Montreal and Toronto combined, but with 43,000 more people of Irish ethnic origin. Elsewhere in Upper Canada, the counties Dufferin, Grey, Peel, Simcoe, and York (including Toronto) had 117,915 people of Irish origin, or 40.6 per cent of the regional population. Lockwood’s analysis of the Irish communities, their clearing and cultivating the land in primary farming, opening markets, building mills and churches, working as hotel-keepers and journalists, is a powerful riposte to the myth of the Irish as city dwellers. He indeed undertook his study in response to Akenson’s challenge that ‘the historiography of the Irish in Canada has been based on inappropriate American urban sociological models’.7

Historiographical Neglect Post-war depression in Ireland after 1815, overpopulation and pressure on land, and recurring local famine, had precipitated early emigration. This exodus was reinforced for Protestants by the forebodings arising from Catholic Emancipation in 1829 and the concomitant tithe wars that caused such hardship and misery for the parochial clergy in the south-east. The Scots aristocrat, Charles James Stewart, Bishop of Quebec, saw Irish distress as working providentially in Canada’s favour.8 Thomas Millman’s biography of Stewart reveals

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both his dependence on Irish clergy for pioneer work throughout his vast diocese, and his penchant for identifying educated Irishmen whom he himself admitted to orders. James Talman in his research on the backgrounds of the pioneer clergy, concluded: ‘The Church of England in Upper Canada owed its greatest debt to Trinity College, Dublin. By 1840 no less than twenty and almost certainly twenty-seven graduates had served or were serving in Upper Canada.’ Talman’s certain figure of twenty TCD men compared with ten from Oxford and thirteen from Cambridge. Nine of the twenty, he noted, settled in what would become the diocese of Huron, and long known as the Irish diocese.9 Although Talman and other church historians—notably David Bowyer, J. I. Cooper, H. D. Maclean, F. A. Peake and R. E. Ruggle—have published biographies of early clergy, a coherent study of the Irish pioneer achievement is wanting. This failing is buttressed by neglect of the church in which the pioneer clergy had found not only formation, but a vital reformed theology and a missionary inspiration. As the Anglican Church in the Canadas was from 1801 to 1870 formally The United Church of England and Ireland, scholarly understanding is needed to replace the scant, superficial and simplistic references so uniformly dismissive of the contribution of the Irish Church.

Cultural Legacy Whatever the silence of historians, the very stones cry out to record the ubiquitous presence of Irish settlers, clerical and lay. Irish immigrants influenced the spread of Gothic architecture in the Canadas. James O’Donnell, a Protestant from county Wexford, who as an experienced master-builder in 1823 designed Montreal’s Notre Dame Cathedral, the first neo-Gothic church in North America.10 The Cathedral of the Holy Trinity in Quebec City records the names of professional men and retired officers from Ireland who contributed to its life, St James’ Cathedral in Toronto likewise. The Irish history writ large in cathedral narthex and nave and on the walls of parish churches is complemented by memorials in cemeteries and headstones in churchyards. Parish burial grounds at neighbouring St Paul’s, Perrytown and St Mark’s, Port Hope display the names of early settlers from rural Ireland, the former offering various spellings of county Fermanagh. The Irish pioneer practice of proudly indicating county, sometimes even townland, of origin is prevalent in Ontario. In 1932, at St James’s Cemetery at Clandeboye, the descendants of Lieutenant-Colonel James Hodgins erected an imposing memorial to their noted forbear ‘Who emigrated from Tipperary Ireland in 1832, settled in what later became Biddulph Township, became Agent for the Canada Company in which capacity he secured a grant of the site of

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St James’ Church and Cemetery, and was largely responsible for the settlement of Biddulph, of which he was the first Reeve’. Colonel Thomas Talbot was a remarkable Irishman who peopled no less than twenty-nine townships with immigrant settlers on the north shore of Lake Erie. One such township was Tyrconnell where Mary Patterson Storey, born in Fermanagh in 1758, settled in 1809. A widow on arrival, and having purchased land from Colonel Talbot in advance, she gave ten acres for a churchyard, burial ground and glebe land. St Peter’s church, Tyrconnell, was built in 1827, its inside finished by Mary’s brother-in-law John Pearce. Colonel Talbot, Mary Storey, and John and Frances Pearce are buried in St Peter’s Cemetery.11

The Anne of Halifax and Her Passengers The ship named the Anne of Halifax sailed from Dublin Bay in June 1832, with many on board who were to make a distinctive contribution to national and church life in Upper Canada. The matriarch of the party was Anne Margaret Blake, the widow of Dominick Edward Blake who had been rector of Kiltegan, county Wicklow, in Leighlin diocese. She was the daughter of William Hume MP of nearby Humewood estate.12 Among her accompanying extended family were her daughter Wilhelmina Anne and son-in-law Charles Brough, earlier curate at Aghold in Leighlin, site of a famous ruined abbey. One of four TCD-trained clergy on board, Brough was to be rector of St John’s Arva and Archdeacon of Huron. The second Blake daughter, Frances Mary, married the Rev. Richard Flood who immigrated in 1833. Anne Margaret’s two sons in the party were William Hume Blake, a law graduate of TCD, who became solicitor general and then Chancellor of Upper Canada 1850–62, and first Chancellor of the University of Toronto; and his brother Dominick Edward who became rector first of Adelaide and later of Thornhill. The two other clergy in the party were Arthur Palmer, who became rector of Guelph and Archdeacon of Toronto, and Benjamin Cronyn, the first Bishop of Huron and the founder of Huron College. Cronyn’s election in 1857 by both clergy and laity of the diocese was the first such in Anglican history, after legal standing for such election had been granted in England to Anglican synods overseas. Reforming bishops in the Irish Church had insisted that parish registers be maintained, and this training informed the ministry of all four clergy in Upper Canada. Blake’s registry at Adelaide evinced strong family ties.13 On 17 February 1834 he married by licence Richard Flood and Frances Mary Blake, his sister; and in the same year baptized not one, but two, Dominick Edward Blakes (his own and his late father’s given names): his nephew, the son

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of William Hume Blake and Katherine Hume, was baptized on 15 February, and his own son on 14 September 1834. (William Hume Blake had married his cousin, who was referred to by her maiden name within the family). Their son, (Dominick) Edward Blake was to be briefly Premier of Ontario, then a minister in the federal government. He was the dominant Liberal in the first twenty years after Confederation. As Minister of Justice in 1875 he established the Supreme Court of Canada. Marriage alliances were formed in the families of those who had sailed on the Anne of Halifax. Two sons of William Hume Blake, Dominick Edward and Samuel Hume Blake, wed respectively Margaret and Rebecca Cronyn, daughters of Bishop Cronyn, and their sister Sophia married Verschoyle Cronyn, a son of the bishop. The latter extended such networking to include an old college friend, Hamilton Verschoyle. Not only did he name one son after him; Hamilton Verschoyle (later Bishop of Kilmore) preached at his consecration in Lambeth Palace. The networking was evinced too in the clerical character of some of these families. Catherine Wilhelmina, born to Richard and Frances Mary Flood in 1840, was the daughter, wife, and mother-in-law of clergy. She married John McLean, a Scot who became the first Bishop of Saskatchewan, and three of their daughters married clergy during 1886, the year of their father’s early death.14

Benjamin Cronyn Cronyn’s formation had been under two remarkable men in the Irish Church: his rector in St Mary’s, Kilkenny, the saintly Peter Roe and Archbishop Power Trench, who when Bishop of Elphin had in 1816 experienced an evangelical conversion.15 Trench was a national leader of the Evangelicals and a virtual proconsul in time of famine, as in 1822 when he had overseen the relief efforts throughout his province. From 1827 Cronyn had served the county Longford parish of Kilcommick in Trench’s Ardagh diocese. He was to have gone to Adelaide, but on his way there was persuaded to stay at ‘The Forks’ on the river Thames. He was one of sixty-seven clergy in Canada, many of them Evangelicals like himself, sponsored by Society for the Propagation of the Gospel. His untiring work as rector of St Paul’s, London, itinerating throughout the region, raising funds and recruiting clergy in the United Kingdom, all bore fruit. By 1857, at the formation of Huron diocese, every major station had an Irish incumbent, including Chatham, Goderich, London Township, Owen Sound, St Thomas and Woodstock.16 Of Cronyn’s episcopate, church historian Archbishop Philip Carrington, wrote: ‘The diocese of Huron, under its energetic and forceful bishop, became a powerhouse for the

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whole Canadian Church. He was a great fighter, and a great fisher of men.’17 The character of Cronyn’s episcopate bears striking comparison with that of Power Trench, both of them in missionary situations, leaders in pioneer work. After his consecration at Lambeth Palace, Cronyn with sure instinct made for Dublin. There he recruited for ordination in Huron three friends from Trinity College who attended Dr Charles Fleury’s Bible class at the Molyneux Chapel: James Carmichael, Edward Sullivan, and John Philip du Moulin. Known in Canada as the three musketeers, they became ministers of large urban churches, and all three later missionary bishops in the Canadian Church.18 The oldest of the three had been born in 1832, the year Cronyn had emigrated.19 Cooper notes that the Irish in the Canadas founded and endowed theological colleges: Wycliffe College ‘under the fostering care of the Blake family’, Montreal Diocesan College later in the century, and Huron College.20 Huron College’s Declaration of Office was signed on 4 June 1863: by Bishop Cronyn as president, Dr Hellmuth as Principal, and Charles Brough, Richard Flood, and John McLean among the councillors present, with Verschoyle Cronyn named as solicitor.21

Dominick Edward Blake In Ireland Blake had had charge (1830–2) of Ayle district in Aughaval Union. Centred on the town of Westport, it embraced a large area of county Mayo. Its rector was Archdeacon Thomas Grace, a pioneer Evangelical in the west. ‘D.E. Blake’ officiated at both baptisms and marriages, his final marriage dated 4 June 1832, days before he sailed west. In Adelaide he registered his first baptism on 29 September, the first marriage on 5 October 1833. On the same days that he ordained Blake—deacon 17 October 1830, priest 20 May 1832—Archbishop Trench ordained also Mark Foster and Thomas De Vere Coneys, whom he appointed travelling missionaries in Connemara, a region as neglected then as Upper Canada, and as much in need of both resident clergy and churches.22 Blake’s experience in Ayle informed his work in Adelaide: pastoral zeal, church planting, record-keeping. In his first year, he built both a church, dedicated to St Ann, and a rectory that stood on 200 acres of glebe, with a burying ground on the same site. The status of Crown Rectory was granted by Sir John Colville in 1836, a due recognition of Blake’s achievement in his first three years. It was said of him that he ‘rode many miles on horseback through the bushlands, ministering to the people’.23 This itinerating in the rapidly growing region revealed the need to plant churches. Blake built three in the early 1840s: at Katesville (St Catherine’s), Strathroy (St John the

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Evangelist), and Napier (St Mary’s), the last the oldest standing church in Middlesex county in the 1950s.24

Richard Flood Richard Flood had served in St Mary’s on the Shannon, was a near-neighbour and friend of Cronyn. Soon after his arrival in Upper Canada he settled on the Longwoods road in Caradoc on the Thames, a small community of mostly European settlers, among them the large Bateman family from Cork. In 1835 Flood made contact with the Bear Creek and Muncey Indians, some ten miles upstream from his church at Delaware. Both Bowyer and Talman dwell on his persistence as a missionary, despite danger and privation, and travel and language difficulties. Later, in 1847, Flood set up a station in a village of the Oneidas. His friendships with Indian chiefs enhanced his ministry. The register of Delaware Church survives for the period 1834–1848.25 The handwritten register consists of bound sheets brought from Ireland, and normally completed on both sides. It provides significant insight into the early ministry by Irish clergy in this area of Canada in the mid-nineteenth century. Flood divided it into sections for baptisms, marriages, and burials. He interwove detail of four early communion services and formal notes on vestry meetings between 1836 and 1846. There were seven communicants in Delaware church on Trinity Sunday 1835: ‘the first time the Sacrament was administered by me or by any clergyman of the Church of England in this settlement’. There were two married couples, his wife, and two other married ladies. The next communion service recorded is Christmas Day 1841, with thirty-four names, including ‘Mrs Garnet’s man’ and ‘Capt James Snake, Cheif [sic]’ among nine Indians. On Easter Sunday 1844, Flood recorded the names of thirty-five communicants; and ‘at L Muncey town the Sunday after Easter’ the names of thirteen Indian communicants, including James Snake and ‘Shoemaker Snake’. Why Flood should have recorded three celebrations after the historical inaugural communion, is not apparent. He recorded no others. The first marriage, on 8 September 1834 at Caradoc, was that of George Carruthers and Mary Rawlings. In 1838 Flood married a fellow pioneer cleric: ‘Thomas Green Clk and Catherine J. A. Killaly both of the Township of London were married by License [sic]’. Another bridegroom was Paul Edward ‘a Sarg:t [sic] in her Majesty’s 32nd Regt Southwold London UC’. On 22 April 1838, ‘James Maskilounge and Eliza Foy native Indians of Muncytown Township of Carrodoc [sic]’ were married, Flood’s first wedding in the Indian communities. He took pains to identify formally the

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locations from which married couples came. Thus ‘town of Chatham, WD’ and ‘Barton, District of Niagara UC’ are recorded in the register, and locally Yarmouth, Moza and Carodoc itself as ‘LDUC’. In a total of 132 marriages to 22 June 1852, forty-six took place in the six years 1834–9, and eighty in the period 1840–7. After the new diocesan register was provided in 1848, Flood still recorded some marriages of Indians in his original register, four of the final five therein involving Oneida Indians. With burials, two were registered in both 1834 and 1835, with one burial only registered in 1836, that of his firstborn child: ‘Catherine Ann Flood died on the 12th Feb:y and was buried on Sunday 14th of same month 1836, the coldest day that ever came to her fond parents—RF’. After that entry the burials register lacks method and continuity, in marked contrast to the meticulous care with which Flood kept the marriage and especially the baptism registers. Only twenty-one burials are recorded 1836–48, the last six of these with names and dates only: two in each of 1843, 1847 and 1848. Why so few burials were registered, with none at all in the years 1844–6, is inexplicable. One entry in the register reads thus: ‘Richard Canolong the Head Cheif [sic] of the Bear Creek Chippoways died on the 4th of Oct:r 1842 and was interred on the following day at Lower Munceytown in the township of Caradoc’. The entry appears not to be in Flood’s hand, a conclusion supported by the correct spelling of interred; Flood wrote ‘enterred’ or even ‘entered’. Four weeks earlier, in the register of baptisms, the entry for 7 September 1842 had recorded, in Flood’s hand, that this same Head Chief, ‘about 58 years of age was baptized at L. Munceytown by the Lord Bishop of Toronto RF’. Flood had made the entry (spelling the chief’s name ‘Canoting’), but Bishop Strahan did not sign the register. The bishop may have returned four weeks later to bury the Head Chief, and made the burial entry himself; if so he again did not sign the register. Flood recorded later that ‘Richard Noble Starr MD of the township of Caradoc was enterred [sic] Aug:t 1843 at Delaware’.

The Baptismal Register This register is the most striking and sustained section of Flood’s ‘Register of Delaware Church’. His conscientious, painstaking and thorough record is consistent throughout. It affords indirectly a unique insight into the composition and life of the communities, settler and indigenous, that he served. The first baptism in his original register was entered on 15 July 1834, and his second register began with a baptism on 16 April 1848. He continued, however, to register baptisms of (mostly) native people in the original register for several years. The second register is a bound volume supplied by the diocese of

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Toronto, with sections for baptisms, marriages and burials. The name of the officiating minister is not given in the formal marriage entries; and within that section Toronto is, from 1857, deleted and Huron substituted as the name of the diocese. The analysis of baptisms that follows is taken from the original register, in which Flood registered 385 baptisms from 15 July 1834 to 22 April 1852. (His new register recorded 319 baptisms, from 16 April 1848 to his last on 30 July 1864.) For most baptisms—each allocated a number—Flood normally recorded the names of the child (or adult) baptized; the names of the father; the names of the mother, often her maiden name; the date of birth; the date of the baptism; and the name of the township in which the parents resided. With the baptisms of native people he normally gave the place of the baptism, so denoting the tribe. The townships for the earliest baptisms (Nos 1–32) were Caradoc, Lobo, Delaware, Mosa (or Moza), Tone and Ekfrid. Flood often indicated ethnic identity in the margin: Canadian, Scotch, American, French (twice), Indian; Roman appeared once, as did Presbyterians (at Mosa), and by inference a Baptist family whose infant ‘was received into the Church’. There was even a ‘New [Br]unswick Quakeress’, Jane Burns.26 No Irish families were indicated as such, but several Bateman children were baptized. Flood’s spelling (and sometimes his numbering) was erratic. The name Rachel was never thus spelled; instead Rachell, Racheal, Rachail, Rachiel, and Racheel all appear. He was easily influenced: after ‘D. Blake’ registered baptism No. 10 and wrote ‘Carrodoc’, Flood repeated it in Nos. 11 and 13–15, before reverting to Caradoc. Again, where he had put only his initials for the first baptisms, the ‘D. Blake’ of No. 10 was followed by ‘R. Flood’ for No. 11. Thereafter the usual variants are, Richard Flood or Rich:d Flood, often followed by ‘Miss:y’. Baptism No. 187 (13 November 1842) was of Dominick Edward John, son of Richard Flood Clk and Frances Mary Blake his wife. Their second son also was given the Blake family names William Hume. Of the ten Flood children, the baptisms of seven were registered between 18 February 1835 (that of the first born, Catherine Ann, who died in 1836) and 11 July 1847, in the first Delaware Register. Flood’s first baptism was recorded in typical style: ‘John Aldis son of William Mahew and Ann Aldis his wife Township of Lobo was born Feb:y 5th 1834 and baptized July 15th 1834. RF’. The growing number of baptisms reveals Flood’s influence in ministry. There were five in each of the three years 1834–6, eight in 1837, nineteen in 1838, twenty-three in 1839, twenty-eight in 1840, and thirty in 1841. Then in 1842 Flood recorded seventy-four baptisms, thirty-three of these grouped on three occasions. On 23 February 1842 he baptized fifteen infants, teens, and adults from among seven families; on

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1 May eight Carroll children, including twins, born between 1825 and 1839— Flood recorded their names but not those of the parents, and on seven occasions gave the date, wrongly, as 1 May 1841 (Nos. 162–169). On the third occasion, three children, apparently cousins, from each of the Bateman and Nagle families were among the ten who were baptized on 23 October. This year 1842 was the peak year for baptisms; for the five years 1843–7 the number averaged thirty-four. More cousins were baptized in 1843: at Tone, on 17 January, two children of Francis Cox and Ann Powell, and three of Thomas Powell and Elizabeth Cox. At Mosa on 22 January 1846, three children of Thomas Duncan and Alminia his wife—the margin has ‘Scotch’—were baptized: Azubah, born 1840, Agnes 1843, and Iram 1845. Among doctors named as parents was Abraham Francis MD. Flood’s accuracy sometimes flagged. On 29 June 1845, three children, William, Hannah and George were baptized at Caradoc, the only other detail in the entry being Cawthorpe, their father’s surname; and at Delaware on 27 July 1845 even the child’s name was not registered, the father’s name Gillespie only being recorded. Flood left appropriate spaces for other detail but never filled them. This lapse was uncharacteristic.

Baptisms of Indigenous Peoples The baptismal register has many indigenous names among its 375 entries. No. 29: ‘James Snake Indian Chief of the Monsee nation nephew of the celebrated Chief Tecomby was born about the year 1776 and baptized April 22nd 1838 at Lower Munsey in the township of Carradoc [sic]’ And No. 65: ‘Frances wife of James Snake, Lower Monseetown about 30 years of age, of the Munsee Nation was baptized this 19th day of January 1840 by R Flood Missionary to the Indians’. The next entry recorded the baptism of her daughter Victoria ‘by a former husband’. Early in 1842, however, the marriage register recorded: ‘James Snake and Frances [sic] both of L Munceytown, native Indians’. Four sons and two daughters of Benjamin Fairchild and Elizabeth Hagar his wife were baptized ‘at Lower Monsee town’ on 17 June 1838, the same day as their mother and also William Half Moon ‘of the Munsee nation’ were baptized. Then on 8 December 1839, Minchin Canalis ‘a Muncey Chief’, born January 1783, was baptized ‘at Old Munseytown’, with his wife Mary Canalis ‘of the Delaware Nation at Grand River’ admitted to baptism on Christmas Day 1839. Baptisms took place on Christmas Day in 1840 and 1841 also. The variants that Flood used for indigenous names and locations are apparent here; Muncytown was yet another. Talman suggests that typing errors were to blame; but not in Flood’s handwritten register! He regularly

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identified indigenous people as being ‘of the Chippaway/Oneida/Muncey nation’, or ‘of the Delaware tribe’, or as ‘a Muncey native’. One or two had been born ‘at Moravian town’, others baptized ‘at Oneida Village’. One entry was that for ‘Elizabeth Ahwashgeskegaqua (alias Beaver) a Chippaway about 20 years of age’. Shoemaker Snake (a communicant, as noted above, on the first Sunday after Easter in 1844) was baptized ‘at Lower Muncey town on 5 March 1843, and his daughter Rebecca on the same day. Shoemaker’s son Peter was baptized at Grand River on 22 January 1844 ‘by the Revd Adam Elliot Miss:y to the Tuscorora Indians’—No. 243 as entered by Flood. Again, John Carey ‘Missionary of Walpole Island’ administered baptism at Delaware on one occasion, as did ‘John Gunn Miss:y’, both of these also recorded in Flood’s hand. A more familiar name graced the register on 13 March 1842: ‘Dominick E. Blake, Rector of Adelaide’. The record of Flood’s baptism of indigenous people is testimony to his having won their trust and loyalty. Men and women of all ages came to him to be baptized. Flood’s devotion to these fine people was matched by the respect which he accorded to their persons and their status. He baptized ‘John, son of King George and Mary Beaver his wife’; and ‘David, son of Louis Fox (Chippaway Cheif) [sic]’. He took an evident pride in placing his own name alongside theirs. Entry No. 173 reads: ‘Joseph son of Richard Canoting Head Chief of the Bear Creek Chippaways, about 22 years of age was baptized the 16th day of October 1842 at Lower Munceytown by R:d Flood Missionary’. Richard and Jane, Joseph Canoting’s infant children, were baptized on the same day as their father. Flood baptized ‘Mary (indigenous name Penesawabonequa) wife of Albert Saxe Cobourgh about 18 years of age’. He gave the sacrament on 24 August 1845 to ‘John Canalis a Delaware Indian from the Grand River but now residing at Moravian town about 41 years of age’. The loveliest entry in Flood’s original Register appears, not in Baptisms but under Marriages, as almost the last (No. 128 of 132) of that section: ‘Peter Somner an Oneida Chief aged 114 years and Catherine aged about 85 were married by Banns this 2nd day of June 1848 by Richard Flood Missionary’. He honoured this remarkable couple with his full name and title.

Conclusion The celebrated Canadian-American stage and screen actor Hume Blake Cronyn (1911–2003) epitomized in his conjoined names the enduring legacy of his nineteenth-century forbears. The clerical pioneers in Upper Canada were the first of many generations of Irish clergy attracted to serve the Anglican Church of Canada, in every province from the Maritimes to British Columbia,

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as they do to this day. The pioneers erected churches: Bishop Cronyn built no fewer than 100 in Huron diocese. Christ Church, Delaware, where Richard Flood long ministered, was the mother church of six other churches: St John’s, Muncey; St Paul’s, Lower Muncey; Zion, Oneida; Burwell Memorial; St Jude’s, Mount Bridges; and St Stephen’s, Melbourne. In their preaching and pastoral work, and through the integrity and influence of their lives, the early Irish clergy, supported by the pioneer laity, men and women, set high standards for their successors, and for the Canadian Church at large.

Notes 1. Robert O’Driscoll and Lorna Reynolds ed., The Untold Story: The Irish in Canada, 2 vols. (Toronto: Celtic Arts of Canada, 1988). 2. Donald Akenson, Being Had: Historians, Evidence, and the Irish in North America (Port Credit ON: P. D. Meany Publishers, 1985), 82–4. 3. P. Carrington, The Anglican Church in Canada: A History (Toronto: Collins, 1963), 185. 4. Glenn Lockwood, ‘Eastern Upper Canadian perceptions of Irish immigrants 1824– 1868’ (Ph. D dissertation, University of Ottawa, 1987), 116–17, 119–21, 125. 5. Donald Akenson, The Irish in Ontario: A Study in Rural History (Kingston and Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1984), 240. 6. Lockwood, ‘Perceptions of Irish Immigrants’, 131, Maps 8 & 15. 7. Ibid. 59, 73–4, n.140, 440. 8. Thomas Millman, The Life of Charles James Stewart: Second Anglican Bishop of Quebec (London, ON: Huron College, 1953), passim. 9. J. J. Talman, “Some Notes on the Clergy of the Church of England in Upper Canada Prior to 1840” Trans. Royal Society of Canada, Section II, 1938, 62. 10. R.Tremblay, “O’Donnell, James,” in Dictionary of Canadian Biography, vol. 6, University of Toronto/Université Laval, 2003–, accessed October 23, 2015, http:// www.biographi.ca/en/bio/o_donnell_james_6E.html. 11. Information derived from ‘St Peter’s Church, Tyrconnell’, a leaflet provided in summer 2003 by the rector, the Rev. Anna Berwick. 12. The gates of the estate, recently bought by an American, John Malone, are beside Kiltegan rectory. 13. The ‘Registry of the Marriages Baptisms and Burials in the Township of Adelaide 1833’ is in the Diocese of Huron Archives, Huron College, London, ON. 14. Baptism registered 27 September 1840, Register of Delaware Church; L.G.Thomas, “McLean, John (1828–86),” in Dictionary of Canadian Biography, vol. 11, accessed October 23, 2015, http://www.biographi.ca/en/bio/mclean_john_1828_86_11E. html. 15. Roe’s letter to Cronyn on his ordination, and Trench’s Letter of Orders dated 11 June 1827, are with the Cronyn papers in Huron College, London, ON. 16. John Cooper, ‘Irish immigration and the Canadian Church before the middle of the 19th century’, Journal of the Canadian Church Historical Society II no.3 (1955), 15. 17. Carrington, Anglican Church, 118.

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18. W. Bertal Heeney, Leaders of the Canadian Church. (Toronto: Musson, 1918), 201– 31, 267–319. 19. Carrington, Anglican Church, 118, 129, 131, 135, 143. 20. Cooper, ‘Irish immigration’, 16. A commemorative wall plaque in Huron College records its origins: The college was founded by the Right Reverend Benjamin Cronyn who, following his election in 1857 as the first Anglican Bishop of Huron, saw the need for a theological school and institution for advanced studies to serve the rapidly expanding population of the region. He selected Archdeacon Isaac Hellmuth to raise funds in England and Canada, and Huron College was incorporated in May 1863. Under Hellmuth’s capable direction 1863–66, the institution provided theological training and a course in liberal arts. In 1877 the professors and alumni of this college, strongly supported by Hellmuth, proposed the establishment of the Western University of London, founded in 1878, with which Huron became affiliated in 1881. 21. ‘Huron College Declaration of Office 1863, June 4th’, Huron College Archives, London, ON. 22. J. B. Leslie’s unpublished ‘Tuam: Biographical Succession List’; Register of Aughaval Union, in the Representative Church Body Library, Dublin. Joseph D’Arcy Sirr, A Memoir of Power Le Poer Trench, Last Archbishop of Tuam (Dublin: William Curry, 1845), Appendix 1, 773–4. Palmer was priested by Archbishop Trench on 17 October 1830. 23. Dora Aitken, ‘A history of St Ann’s church and Adelaide’ (Adelaide, ON: s.n., 1967?). Blake’s Irish Communion vessels were (in 1967) preserved in a cabinet at the back of the church. 24. Details of these churches and cemeteries are provided in fonds in the Diocese of Huron archives, Huron College, London, ON. These take up the ‘Rambling Remarks’ from Huron Church News by C. H. James, one blemish being that Bishop Cronyn came ‘from England’. 25. Huron College Archives, The Register of Delaware Church 1834–[1848]. 26. The page of the register is slightly torn at this entry.

Teaching and Writing History at Wycliffe College, Toronto, 1881–1944 NATHAN WOLFE

Wycliffe College was founded with the objective of training Anglican clergy. Most church colleges of the nineteenth century in Canada attempted to offer degrees in liberal arts as well as theology. Wycliffe College was one of only a few that decided from the beginning to only offer theological courses and actively sought to federate with a provincial university, in this case the University of Toronto, in order to obtain a liberal arts education for its students.1 This left Wycliffe College free to focus all of its resources on theological education. This essay will endeavour to assess the quality of the liberal arts education provided to Wycliffe College students from the founding of the college to the middle of the twentieth century by examining the study and writing of history. Beyond the question of liberal arts education, the study and writing of history in the early days of Wycliffe College is interesting and complicated. First, the study of history in Canada was in the early stages of professionalization during this period.2 Second, the study of history easily, but at times uncomfortably, straddled the worlds of theological education (through ‘ecclesiastical history’) and liberal arts education (through general history). Finally, all of this is tied together through the career of George M. Wrong who was a professor of ecclesiastical history and examiner at Wycliffe from 1883–1892 and again from 1906–1917, and is also regarded as the main individual responsible for the development of the history department of the University of Toronto and a pioneer figure in the early formation of a professional historiography in English speaking Canada.3

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Rationale for the B.A. Degree Wycliffe College was founded in 1877 as the Protestant Episcopal Divinity School. The name change to Wycliffe College occurred about the same time as affiliation with the University of Toronto in 1885. Wycliffe became federated with the University of Toronto in 1889.4 Prior to federation, education at Wycliffe consisted largely of divinity related courses, specifically in bible, biblical languages, theology, preaching, ecclesiastical history, Christian apologetics and instruction in the polity of the Anglican Church.5 Calendars from 1880 onward state in the ‘Qualifications for Admission’ section that students needed to come to Wycliffe with a university degree in hand or expect to take and pass the Junior Matriculation exam at the University of Toronto.6 Some of the early founders, most notably the politician and university trustee Edward Blake and Wycliffe’s first principal James P. Sheraton, called for incorporation with the provincial university.7 That Wycliffe College should seek a formal relationship with the provincial, ‘secular’ and ‘non-denominational’ University of Toronto from the beginning was unusual.8 While most church colleges in Canada would eventually follow Wycliffe in handing over the liberal arts side of the curriculum to a larger university, in most cases this came about after efforts to provide degrees in theology and liberal arts proved not to be financially viable, and sometimes resulted in the abandonment of theology courses altogether.9 The founders of Wycliffe College who advocated federation with the University of Toronto argued that the relationship with the larger university was necessary for two reasons. The first involved the allocation of financial resources to allow each party to focus on what it did best. It was argued that the University of Toronto held the resources that could provide Wycliffe students with what was then thought of as a well-rounded liberal arts education.10 This would free up Wycliffe to focus all of its own financial resources on education directly related to theology. That Anglican clergy should obtain such a liberal arts education was deemed necessary so that future ministers could engage an educated laity professionally.11 Secondly, the provincial university with its secular component and incorporation with colleges from other denominational affiliations provided a desirable exposure to other viewpoints.12 It was argued that students for the ministry should not be isolated from those they might one day serve. Furthermore, against those who worried about exposure to other faiths, it was argued:

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In all Theological training there must be special professors and lecturers for those subjects definitely connected with the faith and teaching of our Church, but there are other subjects where the splendid resources of a great institution like Toronto University (with over four hundred professors and lecturers and an equipment second to none) permit of much more effective teaching than is possible in a smaller institution.13

Taking liberal arts classes such as history at the publicly funded University of Toronto with other students from different denominations, different religions or even no religion, was seen by the founders of Wycliffe as essential to a ‘Christian education’ and preparation for the ministry.

Academic Curriculum and Assessment Wycliffe students took their liberal arts courses through University College, University of Toronto. They studied literature, science, mathematics and classes in what today would be labelled social sciences. But Wycliffe students were most likely to take courses related to history. The total number of history examinations provided to Wycliffe students each year through University College was always greater than other subject areas. Few subjects ever had more than one examination per year, but history generally had at least four and increased as the history department expanded.14 History courses held a special place that even courses in literature, the sciences and mathematics did not, since the competencies developed in history courses dovetailed nicely with most courses in theology, with ecclesiastical history being an obvious example along with courses in biblical history, church polity and the Book of Common Prayer. Wycliffe students did not have to take a B.A. through University College and could satisfy themselves with the B.D. through Wycliffe. However, students were highly encouraged to take both degrees. Acts to confer degrees in divinity were passed by the provinces of Ontario, Quebec and Nova Scotia and adopted by the Provincial Synod of the Anglican Church of Canada in 1889.15 A board of examiners was established with representatives from six Anglican colleges and universities, including Wycliffe.16 The board of examiners developed the curriculum, selected course texts and examinations for each subject area. The representative from Wycliffe was usually the principal, although H.J. Cody and George M. Wrong also participated in developing the examination questions.17 The influence of Wrong increased the importance of historical study for Wycliffe students because he continued to lecture at Wycliffe, administer Provincial Synod of Canada examinations and examinations in history through University College.18

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With regard to subject matter, the faculty at Wycliffe generally taught students that ecclesiastical history was fundamentally different from other areas of historical study, since they highlighted God’s providential guidance in the unfolding of history.19 In this they were at one with other church colleges with evangelical backgrounds in Canada at the time.20 However, this was at odds with the general opinion of professional historians who were members of the Church of England trained at Oxford and Cambridge in the latter half of the nineteenth century, who tended to see the study of ecclesiastical history as different from other areas of history only in the subject matter to be covered. For instance, while the faculty at Wycliffe focused on the providential role of God in the English Reformation, historians trained at Oxford and Cambridge were more likely in their historical publications and teaching to treat the religious history of the Reformation with the same tone and historiographical tools as they would the political, economic and social histories of the time.21 In practice, Wycliffe students had the opportunity to write examinations for four history courses through University College, completing one each year. In general, these courses were simply divided into broad historical periods, so first year usually covered ancient Greek and Roman history, second year covered medieval history, third year covered ‘Reformation Era History’ and fourth year was usually one or two courses on what was then modern European, Canadian and American history, which generally reviewed topics and events during the nineteenth century. As the program developed, more courses and examinations were added, for instance Wycliffe students could take McGregor Young’s course Canadian constitutional history from 1907 onward.22 Ecclesiastical history courses taken directly through Wycliffe changed substantially over time. Up to 1889 students took three courses: ‘First Year— Ecclesiastical History and Liturgics’, ‘Second Year—Ecclesiastical History and Polity’ and ‘Third Year—Ecclesiastical History and Polity’. The first year course focused on ‘History of the First Ten Centuries’. The second year and third year history courses focused on English church history from the Middle Ages up to the present.23 With the advent of the Provincial Synod of Canada examinations, students took two courses, ‘Early Church History and Reformation Period’ and ‘English Church History and Prayer Book’. This changed in 1907 to ‘Church History Junior’ and ‘Church History Senior’.24 Academic assessment was determined primarily by the two sets of examinations—those administered for the Provincial Synod of Canada and those administered by University College. Educators at Wycliffe College and University College struggled with the same pedagogical challenges stemming

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from the nature of the examinations in history as their counterparts at Oxford and Cambridge, the tendency of students to engage in cramming, and whether it was really sound to rely heavily on standard history texts, but the final examination would continue to be the primary vehicle for undergraduate assessment until well into the twentieth century.25 One important form of informal assessment at Wycliffe was the prize essays. With regard to the study of ecclesiastical history, the most important was the De Soyres prize.26 Students were invited to write upon a subject relevant to ecclesiastical history. The prize essays were used by Wycliffe to identify exemplary students, and in the case of the De Soyres prize, the first winner H.J. Cody would go on to replace Wrong in the renamed position of Professor in Ecclesiastical History when Wrong joined the history faculty of the University of Toronto in 1892.27

Historical Subject Matter in the Classroom at Wycliffe and University College Unfortunately, few lecture notes or published lectures from the ecclesiastical history courses taught at Wycliffe have survived. We have one published lecture from the early period, 1882, delivered by the first Professor of Ecclesiastical History and Liturgics at Wycliffe College, James S. Stone, on the life and work of Richard Hooker, presumably for the second year Ecclesiastical History and Polity course, which Stone subsequently revised and expanded.28 Stone’s lecture is largely concerned with demonstrating the Protestant and even evangelical extent of Hooker’s thought against those who would co-opt him into the high church Anglican tradition.29 While Stone clearly focuses on questions of theology and ecclesiology in this lecture, he also emphasizes that the larger social and cultural milieus in which they developed were susceptible to change over time. Stone notes that people living in the typical seventeenth-century village would have engaged in social customs (‘the burning of the holly-boy and ivy-girl at Shrovetide’) and behaviour that would be considered inappropriate to clergy in the nineteenth century (drinking beer on the Sabbath).30 While Stone argued that Hooker expressed positions that nineteenth-century evangelicals could agree with, he argued that there was no continuity between the church parties of the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries.31 The collection of printed examinations that we have gives us an excellent indication of the breadth of content covered in the history courses that Wycliffe students took. Moreover, they probably indicate the reason why so many history courses were taken through University College, namely that many of the

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questions could just as easily have been written for an ecclesiastical history course. For instance, the exams administered by E.J. Kylie for the second year course in 1910 would have required knowledge of political, social and military history from the Middle Ages, but they deal predominantly with religious topics: 1. Describe fully Augustine’s mission to and work in England. 2. What are the essential features, the merits and the defects of the feudal system? 3. What services were rendered to England by William the Conqueror or Henry I? 4. What were the causes of the struggle between the Empire and the Papacy in the eleventh century? 5. Describe any one of the crusades. Illustrate your answer by a map. 6. Describe the struggle in England which led to the granting of the Great Charter.32 Questions such as these were open-ended and intended to push students to demonstrate factual knowledge and the ability to propose and explicate a thesis statement. For instance, the course for 1910, administered by Wrong, only contained one question related directly to religion, but it was a question that would have been particularly germane to students at Wycliffe (low church Anglican) and Trinity (high church Anglican):

9. Account for the rise of the Tractarian movement.33 The wording of this question indicates another guiding principle of these examinations, since it could be answered very differently by students from opposing positions of churchmanship while maintaining the main objective of encouraging students to explicate and defend their position using a mastery of the content from the course lectures and readings. The Wycliffe examinations were similar in scope and open-endedness to the University College administered examinations, because they needed to be flexible enough for Anglican colleges with different opinions on doctrine and ritual practice. For example, the ‘Church History III’ examination for 1919 was administered by Dyson Hague: 1. Outline the rise of English nationalism, and the primary movements of the English Church Reformation in the reign of Henry VIII. 2. Give a brief sketch of the state of the Nation and the Church in the closing years of Henry VIII. 3. Describe the reaction in the reign of Mary in its causes and effects.

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4. Outline the outstanding features of the reign of Elizabeth with her two-fold national policy. 5. Explain the influence and salient principles of Puritanism in the reigns of Elizabeth and Charles I. 6. Trace to their cause doctrinal and ecclesiastical, the fatal mistakes of Archbishop Laud, Charles I, and James II. 7. Explain the effects of the Conventical Acts of Charles II, and The Declaration of Indulgence of James II. 8. Show the effect of the Protestant establishment of 1688 upon the subsequent history of England and England’s Church. 9. Show the effect of the Evangelical revival in the 18th, and the influence of the Evangelical party in the 19th century.34 Hague was truculently Protestant and a contributor to The Fundamentals, so we can imagine that his lectures addressed the content for these examinations differently than a faculty member at Trinity College would have. However, the main point is that the questions themselves are worded very much like those administered to Wycliffe students by faculty from the history department at University College, and could be answered by students from different doctrinal standpoints or denominations.35 The similarity in tone and phrasing of the two sets of examinations probably owes much to the influence of Wrong, since he was consulted by Wycliffe for the diocesan examinations, in the one case, and the head of the history department, in the other. Wrong was deeply involved in the workings of Wycliffe and maintained control of the history department, he is listed as the examiner for many of the fourth year history courses administered through the University of Toronto, and for many of the ‘Church History’ courses administered through Wycliffe, so it is difficult to imagine that he was not a determining force in the content taught for the examinations. During Wrong’s active period at Wycliffe, graduates of the college were likely the largest minority of students to go on to complete M.A. degrees in history. Meikle has noted from the history department records that from 1893 to 1940 students with the career profession ‘Minister’ were the largest cohort to take an M.A. degree through the department, with twenty-eight.36 When we cross-list Meikle’s list with the list of total Wycliffe graduates for the period, we see that Wycliffe graduates are the largest minority amongst these ministers, with nine Wycliffe graduates on both lists.37 Of these nine ministers, seven completed their M.A. degrees while Wrong was still active at Wycliffe and of these seven all wrote on topics that were important to Wrong

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and generally to Wycliffe, such as the English Reformation, medieval monastic reform and the impact of the Oxford Movement.38 Several of the testimonials from individuals at Wycliffe, or from those familiar with his work there, state that Wrong was popular amongst the students.39 After he joined the faculty of history he still remained active at Wycliffe as a lecturer until 1915 and was a college examiner until at least 1917. Wrong was a devoted teacher who maintained lifelong relationships with many of his students and managed to balance commitments to both Wycliffe as well as the history department.40 During his tenure he had success in cross-fertilizing between Wycliffe and the history department, filling undergraduate history courses with Wycliffe students and recruiting a sizable minority of Wycliffe students for the new M.A. in history. Wycliffe was not consistent in staffing ecclesiastical history courses after the departure of Wrong.

Faculty With regard to teaching staff, Wycliffe was initially reliant on local Anglican clergy who were willing to teach. While they wanted to hire experienced teachers from Oxford and Cambridge, they recognized that this was not financially viable, and as the college produced more graduates they developed a policy of hiring their best graduates as faculty throughout the 1880s and 1890s.41 At the turn of the century, they then developed a strategy of vetting recent graduates from England, usually from Cambridge, who had exhibited a commitment to evangelical principles and were recommended by trusted contacts. This pattern held for the hiring of faculty to teach ecclesiastical history. The first teacher of ecclesiastical history at Wycliffe was James S. Stone, rector of St. Philip’s Church, Toronto, who taught at Wycliffe until 1883 when he departed for St. Martin’s Church, Montreal, obtained a Doctor of Divinity at Bishop’s University and eventually left Canada for the United States.42 It does not appear that he had any particular training that equipped him to teach ecclesiastical history, but he was popular as a preacher and considered to be a successful administrator who published the one lecture on Hooker. George M. Wrong graduated from Wycliffe College in 1883, concurrently taking his B.A. in Mental and Moral Philosophy and Civil Polity, and quickly joined the faculty as a lecturer in ecclesiastical history, becoming Professor of Apologetics and Ecclesiastical History in 1886.43 He lectured in ecclesiastical history from 1883 to 1892 and again from 1906–1914, was honorary lecturer in Apologetics and Liturgics until 1910, and examiner in ecclesiastical history through 1917. In between these two blocks of time,

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H.J. Cody served as Professor of Church History as well as Professor of the Literature and Exegesis of the Old Testament. Cody left behind a large deposit of lecture notes, but it is unclear if any of these notes were for the church history courses.44 Cody did not publish any works of history and while he did contribute book reviews and notices to the Canadian Historical Review these were all after his tenure as Professor of Church History had ended and were all for books written by close friends and colleagues.45 He had won the De Soyres Prize as a student for an essay on church history so he had demonstrated to the Wycliffe faculty that he had an interest in the subject, but the evidence suggests that his passions were directed toward other subjects. Wrong retired from teaching at Wycliffe fully in 1915 because the college was in financial difficulties stemming from the war.46 W.H. Griffith Thomas filled in as Professor of Ecclesiastical History and Ecclesiology until 1917, in addition to his primary role as Professor of Old Testament Literature. But as with Cody, there is no evidence to suggest that he cared deeply for the subject, as he did not leave behind lecture notes and he also did not publish any historical works. He wrote light book reviews for the Wycliffe Magazine but in only one case could the book in question be described as a work of history, G.R. Balleine’s Layman’s History of the Church of England. The review cannot be said to be critical in any sense.47 Griffith Thomas was followed by H.W.K. Mowll, only recently graduated from Cambridge, who taught as Professor of Ecclesiastical History until 1922. Mowll was greatly admired by staff, but felt that Wycliffe students disliked him because of national prejudice, feeling that they preferred faculty from Canada rather than England.48 Whether or not this prejudice against Mowll’s nationality was real, the fact is that he spent much time away from Toronto focusing on missionary activities, and did not distinguish himself either as a teacher or a writer of history.49 He was followed by a Wycliffe graduate, W.E. Taylor, who continued the trend of not publishing works of history, although he did advocate for the creation of a new course on the history of religion. Like Mowll, his true passion was missions. Finally, R. Mercer-Wilson taught as Professor of Ecclesiastical History until 1931, but following his departure, Wycliffe stopped hiring professors to teach ecclesiastical history until 1953, due to economic pressures stemming from the depression, and relied solely on temporary lecturers.50 With the exception of Wrong, none of these men went on to distinguish themselves with regard to teaching history, conducting historical research or publishing works of history. Of the remaining men, most did not publish at all, with only Hague and Mercer-Wilson providing modest resumes of publications in history and other areas. Why did Wycliffe College hire these men to teach ecclesiastical history? In general, they were all highly trusted by Wycliffe

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principals and other key administrators. With the exception of Wrong, all of them would eventually advance to key positions in the Anglican Church. This all suggests that the teaching of ecclesiastical history was important to Wycliffe as a necessary component for a well-rounded theological education, but that there was little interest in encouraging faculty to carry out historical research or to publish. Moreover, it appears to be the case that the teaching of ecclesiastical history was ultimately less important than other areas of theological study, since it was the first subject to be pared back during times of acute financial stress for the college.

Historical Writing at Wycliffe This lack of publishing output can probably be explained partially by the busy schedules and many roles that Wycliffe faculty had. As noted above, faculty like Cody and Griffith Thomas taught in areas outside of ecclesiastical history. Cody was also the librarian for Wycliffe and carried out extensive parish work, as did all faculty, with the exception of Wrong. Many of the Wycliffe faculty from the time left behind extensive notes and in the case of the first principal, J.P. Sheraton, large unfinished manuscripts.51 It is worth noting that even Wrong did not publish any books during his first tenure at Wycliffe from 1883 until 1892 when he was appointed lecturer of history at the University of Toronto. Likewise, Mercer-Wilson did not publish much while at Wycliffe, and then went on to develop a solid publishing record while working as general secretary for the Religious Tract Society.52 A statement from Wrong’s application for the history position at the University of Toronto implies that the focus at Wycliffe was on teaching, and that publishing was at best secondary.53 There is no indication that the administration at Wycliffe actively discouraged faculty from writing and researching, but their advertisements during this period were far more likely to highlight the number of Wycliffe graduates at home or abroad as missionaries or who had gained preferment as bishops than the publications of their faculty. Wrong would go on to note in his application: ‘I have found that many students in the University would like to pursue historical studies more thoroughly than they are encouraged to do under the present curriculum, and I should hope, if appointed, to see the course of study in History enlarged and improved at an early date.’54 Wrong had success here through the development of the M.A. in history, and he had some success in bringing Wycliffe graduates into the program, but such enrolment dried up with the retirement of Wrong and the number of Wycliffe students writing in the area of history or ecclesiastical history would not rekindle until the arrival of Thomas Millman in the latter half of the twentieth century.

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This being said, some faculty members, aside from Wrong, did publish some works of history and J.P. Sheraton left behind an unfinished manuscript. Also, while Wrong’s vast publishing output is best placed within his career as the head of the history department at the University of Toronto, it is possible that some of the notable themes and historiographic approaches in his publications were developed while at Wycliffe. Publications by J.S. Stone, Dyson Hague and J.P. Sheraton’s unfinished manuscript show that there was at least an interest in the history of Christianity in England. Stone and Hague stated that they were not professional historians and that while their books could help a reader to ascertain historical truths, these were not the truths of the professional historian.55 Their position was that they may not be historians, but they were educated and were able to study the books published by professional historians, read the printed primary sources available to them, and to then make educated conclusions regarding points of historical dispute and to ultimately side with one historian over another, or one historical interpretation over another. This made historical study a valuable resource in defence of the historical and ecclesiological positions propagated by Wycliffe.56 Hague and Sheraton distrusted the ability of historians to be truly accurate, since they were human and could be guided by their ‘fiery passion’ and ‘prejudice’.57 Although it is never explicitly stated, they imply at times that it is difficult for those who do not hold evangelical truths to overcome their passions and to come to a right understanding of various historical events.58 These ideas seem to have been adopted by Wrong, in a modified sense, and were expressed as late as 1927: ‘We may be well assured that until man has become superman there will not be a science of history, for only a being more than man can read all the influences which mould his conduct.’59 Wrong not only expressed distrust of the abilities of the historian, but even of the sources themselves, since they were written by people eager to conceal the truth: Unlike the investigator in the field of physical science the historian has material often deliberately untruthful. The garbage of a court scandal he has to work through. Above all the inaccuracy and incompetence of his witnesses make his path difficult.60

It has been noted elsewhere that Wrong relied largely on printed materials, rather than archival sources, and regularly eschewed documenting his sources throughout his books, preferring to simply list his sources.61 Hague and Stone also relied on printed sources, but Hague noted apologetically that this was due to the difficulty in obtaining them in Canada.62 Casgrain noted a similar

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difficulty in a letter to Wrong.63 Hague was fastidious in citing his sources and Sheraton’s manuscript cites his sources throughout. Hague and Sheraton both wrote polemically, however, and used their sources as a cudgel to strike points against positions held by writers from high church Anglican positions. Wrong diverged from the other Wycliffe writers in terms of subject matter. Hague, Stone and Sheraton focused on the history of the Church of England and subjects important to evangelicals. Wrong wrote on a variety of subjects, but primarily the history of New France, general histories of Canada, textbooks on Canadian history for schools and American history.64 He rarely wrote specifically on religious history and when he founded the Review of Historical Publications Relating to Canada he did not initially add a section for ecclesiastical history.65 Common themes expressed in the writings of Hague and Sheraton included articulation of the Protestant values of Anglican divines in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,66 attacks on the high church continuity theory emphasizing the changes occurring during the sixteenth century in England,67 and an explication of the crises occurring in the Church of England through the rise of certain high church groups, such as the Nonjurors and Tractarians.68

Conclusion History as subject matter for a well-rounded theological and liberal arts education was clearly important at Wycliffe, but it cannot be said that historiography shared the same elevation. The scheduled examinations show that graduates were more likely to take history courses than any other courses outside of the theological curriculum. Library purchases of history books were usually equal to other important areas, such as biblical studies and theology.69 Wycliffe publications from the 1890s onward have expressed pride regarding the success of George M. Wrong. None of this, however, suggests a commitment to advancing the work of historiography unless the historical work in question served the interests of the religious mission of Wycliffe, for instance, understanding the history of the Book of Common Prayer. Faculty such as Stone and Hague may have published works that made claims of historical veracity, but even these writers understood explicitly that they were not professional historians advancing an academic discipline. The main objective in these early years of Wycliffe College was to train men for the parish and mission field. A liberal arts education helped achieve this by ensuring that future ministers were prepared to communicate effectively with other Anglicans and people from other denominations and faiths whom they would encounter in their ministries.

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Notes 1. D.C. Masters Protestant Church Colleges in Canada: A History (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1966). 2. Carl Berger, The Writing of Canadian History: Aspects of English-Canadian Historical Writing since 1900 2nd ed. (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1986); Donald Wright, The Professionalization of History in English Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005). 3. W.S. Wallace, ‘The Life and Work of George Wrong’, Canadian Historical Review XXIX (Sept. 1948), 229–37; Berger, Writing of Canadian History, 1, 8–21; William Duncan Meikle, ‘And Gladly Teach: G.M. Wrong and the Department of History at the University of Toronto’, Michigan State University, Ph.D. 1977. 4. J.P. Sheraton et al., ‘The Theological Colleges’, in W.J. Alexander, ed., The University of Toronto and Its Colleges, 1827–1906 (Toronto: The University Library, 1906), 184–200. 5. The Protestant Episcopal Divinity School of Toronto: Calendar, Course of Study, and Rules and Regulations, 1879–1880 (Toronto: Printed by Hunter, Rose & Co., 1879), 2–3. 6. Wycliffe students had access to the university library and to some courses: The Protestant Episcopal Divinity School of Toronto: Calendar, Course of Study and Rules and Regulations, 1881–82 (Toronto: Printed by Hunter, Rose & Co., 1881), 8–9. 7. Charge of the Lord Bishop of Toronto to the Synod, Report of the Church Association, and Meetings of the Protestant Episcopal Divinity School of Toronto (Toronto: Hunter, Rose & Co., 1879), 37. 8. Wycliffe was not alone in Toronto, since Knox College followed a similar model: Masters, Protestant Church Colleges, 7. 9. Ibid. 196–200. 10. Samuel Hume Blake, Wycliffe College: An Historical Sketch (Toronto, s.n., 1911), 24–5; In Memoriam: Rev. J.P. Sheraton, M.A., D.D., LL.D., First Principal of Wycliffe College and Honorary Canon of St. Alban’s Cathedral, Ob. January 24, 1906,—Aetat. 64, 1841–1906 (Toronto: s.n., 1906), 6. 11. Wycliffe College, Toronto, Canada, Federated with the University of Toronto: A Glimpse of its Life and Work (Toronto: s.n., 1919), 9–11. 12. Wycliffe College, The Jubilee Volume of Wycliffe College (Toronto: Wycliffe College, 1927), 231. 13. Wycliffe College, Federated with the University of Toronto: What? Why? When? (Toronto: s.n., 1919), 5–6. 14. Wycliffe College Archives: Examination Papers, 1903–1921. 15. Sheraton, ‘The Theological Colleges’, 194. 16. The six were King’s College, Bishop’s College, Montreal Diocesan, Trinity, Huron and Wycliffe. 17. Wycliffe College, Jubilee Volume, 83–4. 18. Wycliffe College Archives: Examination Papers, 1903–1921. 19. ‘Outlines of Church History’, Wycliffe Bulletin, vol. 1, no. 2 (1904), 12; ‘The Early Church’, Wycliffe Bulletin, vol. 1, no. 2 (1904), 13.

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20. Michael Gavreau, The Evangelical Century: College and Creed in English Canada from the Great Revival to the Great Depression (Montreal & Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1991), 74–5. 21. For examples of this, see H.M. Gwatkin, ‘The Teaching of Ecclesiastical History’, in F.W. Maitland et al., Essays on the Teaching of History (Cambridge: The University Press, 1901), 1–11; William Edward Collins, The Study of Ecclesiastical History (London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1903). 22. Wycliffe College Archives: Examination Papers, 1903–1921. 23. Calendar, Course of Study, and Rules and Regulations, 7–16. 24. Wycliffe College Archives: Examination Papers, 1903–1921; The Calendar of the University of Toronto, 1913–14 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1913), 201. 25. Meikle, ‘And Gladly Teach’, 14, 59–60. 26. John De Soyres was a graduate of Cambridge who immigrated to Canada in 1888. He was a Cambridge University Extension Lecturer, Professor of Modern History at Queen’s College, London, in 1881–6 and honorary lecturer in the History of Preaching at Wycliffe College in 1895. 27. D. C. Masters, Henry John Cody: An Outstanding Life (Toronto: Dundurn Press, 1995), 32. 28. James S. Stone, Richard Hooker: A Sketch of His Life, Writings and Times (Toronto: Hunter, Rose & Co., 1882). 29. Ibid. 29. 30. Ibid. 38–9. 31. Ibid. 20. 32. Wycliffe College Archives: Examination Papers, 1903–1921. 33. Ibid. 34. Ibid. 35. Reginald Stackhouse, The Way Forward: A History of Wycliffe College, Toronto, 1877– 2002 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2002), 124. 36. Meikle, ‘And Gladly Teach’, 304–13. 37. A comprehensive list of Wycliffe graduates for this period can be found in Stackhouse, The Way Forward, 291–300. 38. Adam Fordyce Barr, The Suppression of the Monasteries in the Reign of Henry VIII, 1904; Robert Brunker Patterson, An Estimate of the Influence of Continental Reform upon the Formation of the Book of Common Prayer, 1905; Henry Douglas Raymond. Bishop Grosseteste and the Monks, 1908; Benjamin Allen Kinder, Newman and the Oxford Movement, 1909; William Hugh Vance, The Last Days of Archbishop Cranmer, 1911; George Robert Bracken, Francis and Papacy, 1913; William Fulton Wallace, Constitutional Experiments under the Commonwealth and the Protectorate, 1914; Ernest Otto Gallagher, The Development of Utilitarianism as a Social Philosophy in England during the 19th Century, 1924; Robert Charles Good, Letter Book, 1827– 1834, 1940. 39. George M. Wrong, Application and Testimonials of George M. Wrong, B.A. for the Post of Professor of History in the University of Toronto [Toronto: s.n., 1894]. 40. There are many examples of correspondence between Wrong and former students in the George MacKinnon Wrong Family Fonds, University of Toronto Archives: Henry Percival Biggar to Wrong, 1894–96, Wrong, B2003–0005, /001, folder 19; Charles

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41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54. 55. 56.

57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

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Norris Cochrane to Wrong, Jan. 30, 1912, Wrong B2003–0005, /001, folder 40; Philip Child to Wrong, Dec. 25, 1933, Wrong B2003–0005, /001, folder 40. The History and Principles of Wycliffe College: An Address to the Alumni by the Rev. Principal Sheraton, D.D., October 7th, 1891 (Toronto: The J.E. Bryant Company, 1891), 9–10. ‘Dr. Stone to Preach: Philadelphia Rector Who is Called to St. James’, Chicago Tribune, Saturday, November, 17, 1884, p. 6 http://archives.chicagotribune. com/1894/11/17/page/6/article/dr-stone-to-preach. Meikle, ‘And Gladly Teach’, 20–5. For a representative lecture see University of Toronto Archives: Cody Family Fonds ‘History of Israel’, Box 20. H.J. Cody, ‘The Story of the Canadian Revision of the Prayer Book’, Canadian Historical Review, vol. III, no. 4, (Dec. 1922), 377–9; ‘Dr. A.H.U. Colquhoun—An Appreciation’, Canadian Historical Review, vol. XVII, no. 1 (1936), 246. Stackhouse, The Way Forward, 99. W.H. Griffith Thomas, ‘A Chat about Books’, Wycliffe Magazine, 2/1 (Dec. 1913), 67. Marcus L. Loane, Archbishop Mowll: the Biography of Howard West Kilvinton Mowll, Archbishop of Sydney and Primate of Australia (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1960), 67. Ibid. 69. Stackhouse, The Way Forward, 184. Wycliffe College Archives: Sheraton Box 3–13, Manuscripts—Historical Works ‘The True Anglican Position’, n.d. R. Mercer-Wilson, Before the Reformation: Lectures Recently Delivered before the Alumni Association of Wycliffe College, Toronto (London: C.J. Thynne & Jarvis, 1930); John Wycliffe (London: Lutterworth Press, 1938); Tyndale Commemoration Volume: Reproducing Substantial Parts of Tyndale’s Revised Testament of 1534, With Some of the Original Woodcuts [s.i.]: Lutterworth Press, 1939. Wrong, Application and Testimonials. Ibid. Dyson Hague, The Church of England before the Reformation (London: Chas. J. Thynne, 1897), ix–x. For a discussion of how nineteenth-century Canadian evangelicals in Presbyterian, Methodist and Congregationalist church colleges encouraged the reading of historiography to support theological positions see Gavreau, The Evangelical Century, 91–104. George M. Wrong, ‘The Historian’s Problem: President’s Address’, Report of the Annual Meeting of the Canadian Historical Association / Rapports annuels de la Société historique du Canada, vol. 6, no. 1, 1927, 5–6. Hague, The Church of England before the Reformation, x. Wrong, ‘The Historian’s Problem: President’s Address’, 7. ‘Professor Wrong’s Lecture’, The Varsity, vol. XX, no. 13 (January 15, 1901), 191. Berger, Writing of Canadian History, 14. Hague, The Church of England before the Reformation, xiii; James S. Stone, Readings in Church History (Philadelphia: Porter & Coates, 1889), 3–4. University of Toronto Archives, George MacKinnon Wrong Family Fonds: Henri Raymond Casgrain to Wrong, Sept. 18, 1897, Box 1.

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64. Wrong was a prolific writer. For a representative sample, see George M. Wrong, Suggestions to Teachers, Designed to Accompany a History of the British Nation (Toronto: G.N. Morang, 1903); Ontario High School History of England (Toronto: Morang Educational, 1911); The Fall of Canada: A Chapter in the History of the Seven Years’ War (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1914); The Conquest of New France: A Chronicle of the Colonial Wars (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1921; Canada and the American Revolution: The Disruption of the First British Empire (Toronto: Macmillan, 1935). 65. A section on ecclesiastical history was not added until volume X, and even then it was combined with law, education and bibliography. 66. ‘The True Anglican Position’, 32–4; Hague, The Church of England before the Reformation, 3–5; Stone, Readings in Church History, 494–521. 67. ‘The True Anglican Position,’ 12–15; Hague, The Church of England before the Reformation, 282–4; Dyson Hague, Wycliffe: An Historical Study (Toronto: Church Record S.S. Publications, n.d.), 7–8. 68. ‘The True Anglican Position’, 3; History and Principles of Wycliffe College, 19. 69. Library purchases were advertised in the Cap and Gown Magazine and the church history purchases were generally equal with other subjects, but many of the purchases, such as Henry M. Woods’ Our Priceless Heritage, would not have been considered historical by most standards of the age: ‘Leonard Library’, Cap and Gown Magazine, 10/1 (Dec. 1932), 40–1.

Restoring Order in the Church: The Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline (1904–1906) GARY W. GRABER

In the late 1800s, ritual conflict cut to the heart of Englishness and Anglicanism. By mid-century, Catholic-minded ministers introduced high ceremonial practices in England’s parishes. From small beginnings, ritualism threatened the Protestant status quo1, even though bishops discouraged innovation. It gained sufficient notoriety to reach the attention of parliament, and a series of bills in the 1860s were introduced. Despite these, and a Royal Commission on Ritual called in 1867, no easy and equitable way to establish and enforce boundaries for the divine service emerged. The Public Worship Regulation Act (1874), framed to ‘put down ritualism’, proved unworkable in practice. Ceremonial innovation continued, and with it, increased party strife.2 The new century saw a renewed call to address ceremonial matters.3 Parliament, bypassing the episcopate, introduced nine anti-ritualist bills into the legislature (1891–1903).4 Though none passed, nearly 200 MPs in the new Commons pledged during the 1903 campaign to support anti-ritualist legislation. After Prime Minister Balfour cautioned Archbishop Randall Davidson against resisting action much longer, Davidson suggested a royal commission as an alternative to parliamentary involvement, which option Balfour accepted.5

Membership of the Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline The Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline’s composition, reflecting the national church’s parties, consisted of fourteen members. Sir Michael Hicks Beach, former Chancellor of the Exchequer (1895–1902) and Conservative

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leader of the Commons (1885), was chairman.6 The leading ecclesiastic, Archbishop Davidson, knew the history of the ritual conflict well and was unsympathetic to ‘advanced ceremonial’. Other notable appointments included Sir Lewis Dibdin, a leading ecclesiastical lawyer and one of Davidson’s chief legal advisors,7 and Sir Francis Jeune, also trained in ecclesiastical law. Sir John Kennaway, Chairman of the Church Missionary Society, and Lord Northampton, Chairman of the Bible Society, were low-church Anglicans sympathetic to non-conformists. Sir Edward Clarke, a Conservative MP and former Solicitor-General (1886–1892), was probably the most outspoken Protestant. The Rev. T. W. Drury was Principal of Ridley Hall, an Anglican Evangelical seminary; and Francis Paget, Bishop of Oxford, was the most prominent highchurch representative. Finally, the Rev. E. C. S. Gibson served, along with Drury, as the most qualified liturgist among the members.8 The commission’s composition, then, was a mix of clergymen, lawyers and politicians, with only three of the fourteen members favouring the high-church position (a generous proportion given the actual number of its proponents).9

Terms of Reference, and Work of the Royal Commission The Commission was not created to catalogue the contemporary church’s practices (which it did do), but to determine the prevalence of unlawful ceremonies and how to rectify matters.10 Its mandate pertained to the Church of England’s ceremonies and ornaments of worship, and to doctrine only insofar as relevant to the law and Anglican worship. In the period 1904–1906, the Commission catalogued the liturgical state of the Church of England, drew conclusions after detailed analysis and made recommendations. In 118 meetings, including seventy-eight days of oral evidence, the Commission examined 164 witnesses working through 23,638 questions and answers on worship. The four volumes published as Minutes of the Evidence Taken before the Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline are a landmark to Anglican worship and legal understanding in early twentieth-century Britain. Concluding in November 1905, the inquiry consisted of two parts: evidence of legal breaches, and episcopal and expert testimony on doctrinal and legal issues.11 Individual witnesses answered questions about irregularities seen in 559 churches (involving 687 separate services); and ministers concerned could respond, if they wished.12 Six months later, the Commission’s Report was completed. Dibdin prepared its original draft, the foundation for discussion.13 Davidson and Paget shaped the final product so that it would be as fair, comprehensive, legal and unanimous as possible. Signed on 21 June 1906, the Report’s unanimous consent strengthened its moral authority, and raised hopes that it would bear fruit.14

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The Report of the Royal Commission The Report’s first chapter presented the methodology of compiling a report based upon evidence received reckoned as evidence unchallenged.15 Legal and historical expert witnesses focused on two controversial topics: the legal position and interpretation of the BCP’s ornaments rubric, and what constituted lawful ecclesiastical authority. Chapters 2–3 summarized ecclesiastical law’s position in the national church,16 placing primary importance on constitutional authority, statutory enactments and judicial decisions on the Church of England’s legal and doctrinal boundaries. It concluded that the successive Acts of Uniformity upheld the Establishment, and were the legal standard.17 Doctrinal and liturgical questions had to be determined on this basis.18 Anglo-Catholics denied the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council’s (JCPC) role in ecclesiastical cases, appealing to ‘catholic tradition’ to disregard ceremonial admonitions of bishops.19 Reforming the JCPC was long judged necessary for a smoothly operating church,20 yet the commissioners denied that such objections undermined ‘the authority which [the JCPC’s] decisions have’. Hearing both varied assessments of the system of ecclesiastical appeals, the Commission concluded that the law as law must be obeyed.21 The Report affirmed that the Acts of Uniformity applied to bishops, rejecting jus liturgicum as ‘inconsistent with the constitutional relations of Church and State in England’. Acts of Uniformity had established the standard—a conclusion neither new nor startling.22 The question was not the correctness of a certain ceremonial action, but its agreeability with the church’s legal standard.23 No appeal to foreign law or ancient practice was admissible. In sum, the commissioners understood law as open to modification, and thus, the importance of discerning whether or not it should be changed. Concerning the existing legal standard, however, the Report’s findings were clear.24 With the Church’s legal basis determined, chapter four addressed present day ‘breaches and neglects of the law’.25 Though the law must be observed, not all breaches were equally severe,26 so illegalities came in two broad categories: I. Illegal practices (whether acts or defaults) which do not appear to have any significance…includ[ing] certain deviations from the legal standard in the services, ceremonies, and ornaments used in public worship (a) which have been adopted on the grounds of convenience; (b) which have resulted from negligence or inadvertence; (c) which have become common for reasons less easy to define. II. Illegal practices which either from their nature, from historical association, or from some other cause, appear to have a significance beyond that which the practices in themselves possess.27

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While impossible to define the types precisely, given the ‘disputable zone’ between them, the Report argued for a real contrast. The key words were: ‘to which great regard should be had’.28 The first type had no effect on the law or doctrine of the church; the second type affected it.29 Trivial irregularities warranted no further consideration;30 however, three sorts of significant breach were discussed. The first sort were ‘formally defined or adopted’ by the Church of England or not doctrinally significant, and thus ‘altogether free from objection’.31 The second might reasonably be regarded as ‘legally declared not contrary’ to the Church of England’s formularies, and thus neither ‘harmful’, nor ‘necessary’. Even so, irregularities ‘reasonably…allowed’ must not occur unless ‘with careful regard of the opinions and feelings of congregations’.32 The third sort, linked to doctrines or teachings ‘contrary or repugnant’ to the Church of England’s formularies, were never to be condoned.33 Essentially, some breaches were not legally contrary and others legally contrary. In the following paragraphs (88–262), the Commission examined thirty-four significant deviations, concluding that eighteen were ‘significant breaches’ and sixteen ‘significant breaches of a graver kind’. Many irregularities were described as arising from the thirteenth-century, in connection with the Roman doctrine of transubstantiation. Their revival was ‘not only wanting in authority, but extremely dangerous, as tending to express and likely to suggest what the Church of England has in unmistakable terms rejected’.34 The commissioners’ classifications guided their proposed solution (see Table 1 below), arranging deviations into nine categories by doctrinal classification and significance classification. Deviations falling under the classification ‘doctrinally legal’ (categories 1–2) should be allowed, and those judged ‘legally contrary’ (categories 8–9) should be disallowed. Non-significant items ‘legally not contrary’ should also be allowed (category 4), but those with doctrinal significance of a graver kind (category 6) should not. Category 5 was the gray area: deviations ‘legally not contrary’ and not a significant breach of a graver kind might possibly be allowed.35 Table 1. Significance Classifications. Doctrinal Classification

Non-Significant

Significant

Significance of a Graver Kind

Legal

1. Allowed

2. Allowed

3. —

Legally Not Contrary Legally Contrary

4. Allowed

5. Possible

6. Not Allowed

7. —

8. Not Allowed

9. Not Allowed

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Eucharistic vestments were among the most controversial and widespread innovation at that time.36 Disagreement centred upon the BCP’s rubrics and the JCPC, which ruled vestments illegal.37 High churchmen argued against the JCPC’s jurisdiction both from rubrics favouring vestments and from their ‘use’ in the second year of Edward VI’s reign (making them required). The Commission affirmed the court’s ruling, but opened the possibility of their legitimate use under certain circumstances by judging them not legally contrary or repugnant to the formularies. The Commission’s unanimous solution—strikingly—satisfied both the high-church position embracing vestments and the low-church position rejecting them as illegal, and thus not mandatory. The significance of questioned practices lay in their resemblance to Rome. Though not necessarily implying a doctrinal link, the Report recognized a possible ‘aggregate effect’ when combined: In a large number of the Services of Holy Communion…vestments, the Confiteor, illegal lights, incense… and the Last Gospel…unite to change the outward character of the service from…the Reformed English Church to that… of Rome.38

Though such clergy acted in good faith, the commissioners could not justify their disobedience.39 Table 2 Lists significant legal breaches that were identified.40 Table 2. Significant Breaches of the Law. Practice

Extent of Practice

Lights on the Holy Table Ceremonial Mixing of the Chalice Use of Eucharistic Vestments Use of Wafer Bread Use of the Lavabo Hiding the Manual Acts Use of the Sign of the Cross Use of the Sanctus Bell Ceremonial Use of Incense Use of Portable Lights Use of Confiteor and Last Gospel Use of Holy Water

Minority (27%) Minority (26%) Minority (11%) Minority Minority Minority Minority Small Minority (2%) Small Minority Small Minority Rare Rare

Table 3 Lists the ‘graver’ breaches both repugnant to the doctrine of the Church of England, and illegal. These, according to the commissioners, should not be permitted:41

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Table 3. Significant Breaches of the Law of a Graver Kind. Practice

Extent of Practice

Elevation of the Consecrated Bread Genuflexion Celebrations Without Communicants & Children’s Eucharist Interpolation of Parts of the Canon of the Mass Omission of the Creed and Gloria in Excelsis Use of ‘Behold the Lamb of God’ While Exhibiting the Consecrated Wafer or Bread Observance of Days Excluded from the Prayer Book Veneration of Images & Veneration of Roods Reservation under Conditions Leading to Adoration Mass of the Pre-Sanctified Benediction Hymns to Blessed Virgin Mary Invocations to Blessed Virgin Mary or the Saints

Minority Minority Small Minority Small minority Rare Rare Rare Rare Very Rare Very Rare Very Rare Very Rare Very Rare

Short chapters on confession, prayers for the dead and altar manuals followed.42 Auricular confession was not encouraged, and prayers for the dead were deemed ‘significant of teaching which is entirely inconsistent with the teaching of the Church of England’.43 The contents of manuals or altar-cards for use during communion services in ritualist churches varied greatly, but no further comment appears for lack of evidence on the particular books used to conduct services. In Chapter 8, the commissioners interpreted evidence,44 finding that the law was ‘nowhere exactly observed’, with minor breaches ‘very generally prevalent’. Some were omissions; others ‘err[ed] in the direction of excess’. Though many loyal church members appealed to precedent set before Roman abuses, many illegal practices were ‘an apparent approximation’ of Roman usage, ‘unquestionably significant of doctrine condemned by the Church of England’:45 The common feature…of most of the illegal practices belonging to this class, such as elevation, genuflexion, use of the Canon of the Mass…is the tendency… to regard the consecrated elements as in themselves objects of adoration, and to direct towards them some of the devotion which is due to our Blessed Lord Himself. These practices lie on the Rome-ward side of a line of deep cleavage between the Church of England and that of Rome. It is significant that many [practitioners]…profess submission to what they term Catholic custom—an allegiance which in practice is found to involve assimilation of some of the most distinctive methods of Roman worship.46

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Before suggesting remedies, the Report outlines the historical context of the controversy including a summary of Archbishop Davidson’s oral presentation before the Commission,47 which explained that strict uniformity had never obtained in England from the Reformation to the present. Local customs varied; and some, through time, stiffened into rules of conduct.48 The problem, not unique to the day, was to discern between problematic deviations and trivial ones. Sir Walter Phillimore, an expert witness, expressed the problem succinctly. Ministers had to use authorized services, and were bound to observe all BCP rubrics. If these rubrics proscribe every ceremonial detail, then even the slightest deviation is a violation of the Acts of Uniformity; this standard was, and always had been, impossible to observe. On the other hand, allowing variations posed a jurisdictional problem: [I]f we say there are…important…and…unimportant variations, who…decides which is which?…If a church court decided, for instance, that a Harvest service… was an acceptable variation, but a Corpus Christi service was not, the decision could be appealed…to the final court of appeal. As currently constituted, one side will not accept the ruling …[for lack of] spiritual jurisdiction. If the court were reformed, and made a spiritual court, others would argue that the Royal Supremacy had been violated. How could one have it both ways, and still be justified according to the Acts of Uniformity?49

Interpreting the BCP’s ornaments rubric was a particularly vexing and complex question. Five expert witnesses focused upon this contentious rubric,50 with opinion polarized according to church party. When accused of illegalities, offending ministers would reply, ‘I am simply obeying what the rubrics order.’51 A solution was elusive since any definitive view was unacceptable to one or another party. Expert testimony revealed the depths of entanglement; it appeared that ministers could make rubrics demonstrate what they desired.52 However, if the ornaments rubric were revised to eliminate unambiguity, all could ascertain what was legal and illegal in public worship so that bishops could ‘do their work’ of enforcing clerical discipline, without interference from Parliament.53 Chapter 10 examined why ceremonial irregularities were not checked,54 identifying the ‘operative cause of the failure to secure obedience to the law’ as ‘unfortunate’ non-confidence in the JCPC.55 Since resistance to the JCPC had grown more pronounced from the mid-nineteenth century,56 the commissioners advocated modifications in line with the recommendations made by an earlier royal commission,57 hoping to ‘secure the obedience of the Church’. They also advocated abolishing the episcopal veto so as to protect

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people seeking justice, while strengthening episcopal authority to refuse to install ministers practicing grave irregularities and refusing to obey the law.

The Report’s Conclusions and Recommendations The final chapter contains the two main conclusions of the Commission. The first58 is that devoted members yearning for liturgical dignity and continuity should not be excluded by laws drafted in a time impervious to such sentiments. The church should revise the ‘strict letter of the law’ with ‘due regard for the living mind of the Church’ so that rubrics might be honoured rather than manipulated. The second59 is that ‘the means of enforcing the law’ are defective, since enforcers have lacked ‘firmness’ and have no right ‘to discriminate between small and great matters’. Therefore, the law should be reformed and ‘admit of reasonable elasticity’, and the means of enforcing the law via the courts should be improved. But ‘above all’, the Report says, ‘it is necessary that [the law] should be obeyed.’ That a section of clergymen should, with however good intentions, conspicuously disobey the law, and continue to do so with impunity, is not only an offence against public order, but also a scandal to religion and a cause of weakness to the Church of England.60 Obedience to the law was requisite even before any reform was implemented.61 In sum, the law should be revised for tolerable variation, some self-regulation of the Church achieved, the ecclesiastical courts fixed, and unwavering obedience to the law expected. The Commission’s ten recommendations followed in the final section of the Report, paraphrased here: 1. Bishops, through the ecclesiastical courts if necessary, should ban the practice of ‘significant breaches of a graver kind’, as they are ‘repugnant to the doctrine of the Church of England, and certainly illegal’. 2. Parliament should enact revisions, crafted by the Convocations, to the Ornaments Rubric and existing law that allow for ‘greater elasticity’ and recognize the ‘comprehensiveness’ of the Church of England. 3. The law should allow the episcopate ‘to sanction special services’ consistent with scripture and the BCP, ‘forbidding…hymns or anthems not in agreement with them’. 4. The diocesan bishop should be authorized to refuse the institution or admission of anyone who has not satisfied the bishop of his willingness to obey the law concerning the conduct and ornaments of services. 5. In ‘doctrinal or ritual questions’, an episcopal assembly ‘from both provinces’ should decide by majority, and give its binding decision.

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6. Indicted ministers should lose their benefice, and not be reappointed until the provincial archbishop ‘is satisfied the minister will not offend in the same way again’. 7. ‘The episcopal veto should be revoked from any suit involving the Church Discipline Act, 1840. The Public Worship Act, 1874, should be repealed’. 8. ‘A local Bishop should have the authority to remove ornaments from a church if those ornaments were placed without a faculty. The Bishop should have standing in Consistory Court in all faculty cases’. 9. Bishops should track ‘the ornaments and conduct of services in his diocese’. The law must be ‘enforceable through a summary application to the Consistory Court’. 10. ‘Many dioceses should be sub-divided’ to aid the administration of the church.62 Whereas, anti-ritualist recommendations (1 and 4–9) emphasizing the rule of law were in line with Protestant sentiment of Parliament for years,63 AngloCatholics looked to recommendations 2–3 and 10, which emphasized elasticity and the possibility of revision for legal sanction of their practices. The public reaction to the published Report and the work of the Royal Commission was guarded but cautiously optimistic.64 Perhaps the Times summed up reaction best: Theoretically, the Church…stands committed to a rigid standard laid down by Acts of Parliament remote in date from the present time…Practically, this rigid standard neither has been nor could be rigidly enforced, and the first need was to classify the numerous variations from it, which range in their enormity from the customary use of hymns…to …the cult of the Sacred Heart. On what principle was this classification to be conducted? The Commission decided rightly in favour of the principle of significance.65

Subsequent Events Shortly after the Report’s publication in 1906, Letters of Business were issued prioritizing revision of the BCP’s rubrics in favour of elasticity, with recommendations focused on implementing other reform stayed until the rubrics were set.66 In time, ‘revision of the rubrics’ morphed into ‘revision of the entire prayer book’, increasingly tolerant of Anglo-Catholicism. The First World War intervened, however, delaying serious revision to the mid1920s; all the while high-church practices continued to spread, as well as

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ritual unrest. Hopes were high that the controversy would end with publication of a new BCP, though many doubted the resolve of the bishops in their promise to enforce the law strictly after its publication.67 In 1927, the Commons rejected the long-awaited BCP, largely due to vehement opposition to revisions in a Rome-ward direction.68 W. R. Inge, Dean of St. Paul’s, voiced parliamentary sentiment well: There has been an atmosphere of unreality and insincerity about the whole business. The majority of Church goers do not want a new Prayer Book, and will shed no tears. Most of the clergy were lukewarm…When the Bishops said that the doctrinal balance of the Church is undisturbed, they were not speaking the truth. And when they promised to enforce the new regulations, they had already…[decided] not to prosecute offenders.69

Following rejection, a slightly revised measure was submitted the following year. It suffered the same fate by a slightly greater majority,70 ending attempts at revision in England for decades. Faced with this stinging rebuke, the episcopate took the unprecedented step of ignoring Parliament’s wishes: the high ceremonial of the proposed 1928 Prayer Book would be permitted, even without the legal sanction of the Establishment.71 Although the Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline did not resolve the ritual controversy, and Church-State relations were undermined, the Commission’s work and its Report remain significant. For the evidence gathered and the Report produced illustrate early twentieth-century Anglican worship in England and how leaders viewed their church at that time.

Conclusion On 20 July 1905, Montague Barlow, a barrister and Official Principal to the Archdeacons of London and St. Albans, offered a statement that tidily summed up possible solutions for the Church: The first is: Coercive legislation of some kind…depriving extreme clergy their livings…[G]ive the bishops… greater powers of deprivation, both for ritual and also for moral offences;…[to] only act when backed by public opinion. Coercion by deprivation is a two-edged weapon: it at once arouses sympathy by making martyrs….Englishmen dislike anything which savours of secular or state persecution of religious opinion honestly held. Secondly,…[t]he objection to setting up a new final Court of Appeal, consisting of the Episcopate[,] is that it seems doomed to failure. Certain [AngloCatholic] extremists will probably refuse to obey the decisions of any court… unless it legalises their own particular views; and in any case the Evangelical and

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moderate party in the Church would probably protest strongly against a court so constituted.72

But then he immediately offered a third possibility: Thirdly…Parliament should permit the establishment of a Central Church Council on a well-constituted basis, and with lay representation; and should then entrust this to Council powers of legislation for the Church, subject to a veto reserved to Parliament or to the Crown.73

This last option came to fruition in 1919 though the Enabling Act, which gave the Church more self-governance through its own National Assembly, with royal supremacy preserved via parliamentary veto power.74 This Act ushered in a new era of limited self-government for the Church of England, while fully retaining its Establishment position in relation to the State.75 Surprisingly, Anglicans now approach self-definition in ways unrecognizable to past generations. Some appeal to the Quadrilateral; others to the Lambeth Conference and communion with Canterbury; still others to the Ecumenical Councils or inherent episcopal authority. Yet, the Royal Commission, following precedent, recognized no such rationale. When identifying Anglicanism’s characteristics, we do well to admit the legal foundation of the formularies that emerged within the reformed Church of England. It follows that the Reformation Settlement is central to Anglicanism within and beyond England, and should not be marginalized.76 Nevertheless, against the received wisdom, which recognizes definite limits to liberty in the formularies, many modern Anglicans now find the rule of law in (personal or) corporate expressions of faith outmoded, as though independence from authority were one of Anglicanism’s virtues.77 But, the question now remains: How can defining Anglican identity apart from its historical context prove successful?

Notes 1. In 1876, about 5 per cent of parishes faced east, and 1 per cent used vestments. See Minutes of Evidence Taken before the Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline, 4 vols (London: HMSO, 1906), I.294; III.88. Hereafter Evidence. 2. James Bentley, Ritualism and Politics in Victorian Britain (London: Oxford University Press, 1978); P.T. Marsh, The Victorian Church in Decline: Archbishop Tait and the Church of England, 1868–1882 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1969); G.I.T. Machin, Politics and the Churches of Great Britain, 1869–1921 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987); Gary W. Graber, Ritual Legislation in the Victorian Church of England: Antecedents and Passage of the Public Worship Regulation Act, 1874 (San Francisco: Mellen Research University Press, 1993); Nigel Yates, Anglican Ritualism in Victorian Britain, 1830–1910 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).

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3. G.I.T. Machin, ‘The Last Victorian Anti-Ritualist Campaign, 1895–1906’, Victorian Studies 25/3 (1982), 277–302; William Joynson-Hicks, The Prayer Book Crisis (London: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1928), 84ff. 4. Gary W. Graber, Worship, Ecclesiastical Discipline, and the Establishment in the Church of England, 1904–1929 (Th.D. dissertation, Wycliffe College/University of Toronto, 2007), 31–2, 361. 5. Times, 9 March 1904, 6; G. K. A. Bell, Randall Davidson, Archbishop of Canterbury (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1935), 461. 6. Hensley Henson, ‘Report of the Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline’, Contemporary Review 90 (1906), 241; R. C. D. Jasper, The Development of the Anglican Liturgy, 1662–1980 (London. S.P.C.K., 1989), 75. 7. Joynson-Hicks, Prayer Book Crisis, 76. 8. Other members were George Harwood, Sir Samuel Hoare, J. G. Talbot and G. W. Prothero. Lord Alverstone, Lord Chief Justice, replaced Jeune, who died 9 April 1905. Paget, Gibson and Talbot were sympathetic to the high-church position, the rest varied degrees of low churchmen. Evidence IV.1; Bell, Davidson, 462; Jasper, Anglican Liturgy, 75. 9. Approximately 10 per cent of the clergy were high-church proponents at this time. 10. Report of the Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline (London: HMSO, 1906), 1. Hereafter Report. See also Bell, Davidson, 462. 11. Bell, Davidson, 473; Times, 22 June 1906, 10. 12. Evidence I–III; Report, para. 5. Additionally, 502 written responses were reprinted in the Evidence volumes. Report, para. 7. About 40 per cent of the Commission’s examination days were devoted to witnesses testifying about services. 13. Bell, Davidson, 472; Yates, Anglican Ritualism, 331. 14. Annual Register (1906), 168. Clark disregarded potential schism, recommending ‘immediate enforcement of the judgments of the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council’. Clarke’s Memorandum, August 1905, Davidson Papers, Ecclesiastical Discipline Commission, 1905–6, in Robert F. Schmidt, Prayer Book Revision in the Church of England, 1906–1929: Liturgy, Doctrine, and Ecclesiastical Discipline (PhD dissertation, Miami University, 1984), 77. ‘The belief that Paget was representative of what High Churchmen wanted meant that the more Protestant members of the Commission were prepared to tolerate things which they objected if they had Paget’s approval for the sake of a unanimous Report’. F. L. Cross, Darwell Stone: Churchman and Counselor (London: Dacre Press, 1943), 86. 15. Report, para. 4–22, esp. para. 8. 16. Ibid. para. 23–34, 35–44. 17. ‘The obligation to conform to the standard is rigid’. Ibid. para. 29. 18. ‘Thus for ceremonies the date of the standard in 1662, for vestments 1566, and for church ornaments 1549’. Ibid. para. 27; Compare ibid. para. 24, Evidence IV.97– 98, and Mark Chapman, Anglicanism: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 36. 19. While it would have been difficult to deny the spiritual authority of the episcopal office, to which they were undoubtedly subject, offenders nevertheless appealed to ‘catholic tradition’ to justify practices. This notion was vague enough to cover almost any practice or innovation. By ignoring the spiritual monitions of bishops, and defying the legal decisions of the court, such clergy were tagged ‘lawless’. See Ecclesiastical

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20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

38. 39. 40.

41. 42. 43. 44. 45.

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Law, Being a Reprint of the Title Ecclesiastical Law from Halsbury’s Laws of England, 3rd edn (London: Butterworth & Co., 1957), 331–45. Report of the Commissioners Appointed to Inquire into the Constitution and Working of the Ecclesiastical Courts, 2 vols. (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1883). Hereafter, Commissioners. Evidence, especially witnesses examined on 11, 14–15 and 22 July 1904; 24 and 30 November 1904; and 3 December 1904. Compare to the Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Courts in 1883. Commissioners I. vff. Report, para. 9. Ibid. para. 44. Ibid. para. 45–262. For example, para. 47–9; Evidence IV.103. Report, para. 45. Ibid. para. 46. Ibid. para. 78; Evidence IV.192–3. Examples of insignificant breaches include the use of hymns, giving notices, and taking collections during services: Evidence I.65–6, 83–4, 228–9; III.79, 11213, and Report, para. 50–74. Report, para. 76, 79. Ibid. para. 77, 79. Ibid. para. 78–80; ‘Of Ceremonies’, BCP (1662), 8–9. Report, para. 78–80. Nothing fell within categories 3 and 7. The most current Tourist’s Church Guide listed 1,526 churches out of 14,242 in England and Wales (slightly under 11%) using eucharistic vestments. Report, para. 90. The ornaments rubric was an abbreviated form of the words of the 1559 Act of Uniformity, which stated, ‘[S]uch ornaments of the Church and of the ministers thereof, shall be retained and be in use, as were in this Church of England by authority of Parliament in the second year of the reign of Edward VI, until other order shall be therein taken by the authority of the Queen’s Majesty’. The courts held that the Elizabethan Advertisements of 1566, which outlawed vestments, was this ‘other order taken’. This was the interpretation taken in the Report: Report, para. 27; Ecclesiastical Law (Halsbury’s), 332–3, 337–8. Ibid. para 296. Ibid. para. 42. Report, para. 75ff. ‘Minority’ means 10–33 per cent of the country’s churches; ‘small minority’ between 1–9 per cent; ‘rare’ less than 1 per cent; and ‘very rare’ less than 0.5 per cent. These percentages were derived from statistics provided in the English Church Union’s 1902 Tourist Guide, and from analysis of evidence presented before the Commission. See Evidence III.96 for a statistical abstract of several ceremonial usages from 1882 to 1901; and Report, para. 159–85, for other, even rarer deviations. Ibid. para 186–249; Evidence IV.193. Report, para. 263–90. Ibid. para. 278; Evidence IV.199. Report, para. 291–9. These would equate with 6, 8, and 9 of the deviation categories.

176 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60.

61. 62. 63.

64. 65. 66.

GARY W. GRABER Ibid. para. 297, 299. Ibid. para. 300–53, esp. 303ff. Evidence II.340–74, 387–402. Evidence II.341. Compare Report, para. 355. Evidence I.225, 308, 318; II.213. See the testimony of Frere, Tomlinson, MacColl, Pullan, and Chadwyck-Healey in the Evidence. Evidence I.8, 13, 15, 18, 19, 22, et al. Report, para. 399. Evidence I.296ff.; III.128, 294ff. Ibid. para. 354–98. Ibid. para. 333; Desmond Bowen, The Idea of the Victorian Church (Montreal: McGill University Press, 1968), 90ff, and J. T. Tomlinson, ‘Judicial Committee’, in A Protestant Dictionary (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1904), 335–6. Report, para. 363. Report, para. 370; Commissioners I.v ff. ‘(T)he law of public worship in the Church of England is too narrow for the religious life of the present generation. It needlessly condemns much which a great section of Church people, including many of her most devoted members, value’. Report, para. 399. ‘(T)he machinery for discipline has broken down. The means of enforcing the law in the Ecclesiastical Courts, even in matters which touch the Church’s faith and teaching, are defective and in some respects unsuitable’. Report, para. 400. Report, para. 399–401. Most interpreters cite the initial sentence of the two conclusions, and overlook much detail: Jasper, Anglican Liturgy, 77–8; Machin, Politics and the Churches, 293; Machin, ‘Last Victorian Anti-Ritualist Campaign’, 301; Schmidt, Prayer Book Revision, 81–2; Cross, Darwell Stone, 81; Bell, Davidson, 471–2; and Yates, Anglican Ritualism, 330–1. ‘It is, in our opinion, unnecessary and undesirable to postpone proceedings until the reforms we have recommended’ come into effect. Report para. 398. Compare with ibid. pp. 76–7. Report, 76–9. Bell states that the ‘principal Recommendations were of Dr. Davidson’s shaping’. Bell, Davidson, 472. Bills against the episcopal veto and imprisonment for contumacy include: Ecclesiastical Procedure (1884), Church Discipline (1899), Church Discipline (1901), Clergy Discipline (1902), Church Discipline (1903), Church Discipline (1904) and Church Discipline (1905). Other bills denying the episcopal veto include: Church Discipline Amendment (1887), Bishops’ Authority Regulation (1888), Public Worship Regulation Act (1874) Amendment (1900), Public Worship Act (1874) Amendment (1901). In addition, the Church Discipline Act Amendment (1883) also ended jail time. ‘The Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline’, Church Quarterly Review 63 (October 1906), 1, 26, 38–9; J. J. Lias, ‘The Report of the Ritual Commission’, Twentieth Century Quarterly 1 (1906), 15–25. Times, 3 July 1906, 9. The Letters of Business were dated 10 November 1906. Significantly, recommendation 1 was never implemented. See Jasper, Anglican Liturgy, 79 ff.; John Maiden, National Religion and the Prayer Book Controversy, 1927–1928 (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2009), 29ff.; and Graber, ‘Worship’, 99–142.

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67. In 1927, 1,400 high-church clergy pledged to resist ceremonial restrictions in the new prayer book. ‘Will the Bishops enforce it? Will the clergy obey it? I am not very hopeful, I cannot pretend to be confident’. Hensley Henson, Chronicle of Convocation (Canterbury) (1927), 91, cited in Graber, ‘Worship’, 230, 237. 68. The 1927 measure was defeated by a 238:205 vote. Hansard, 5th Series, CCXI.2651– 6; A. J. P. Taylor, English History, 1914–1945 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1965), 259; Maiden, National Religion, 149; Gavin White, ‘That Hectic Night’, Theology 77 (1974), 639ff.; and Graber, ‘Worship’, 262ff. 69. Adam Fox, Dean Inge (London: John Murray, 1960), 216. 70. The 1928 measure was defeated by a 266:220 vote. Hansard, 5th Series, CCXVIII.1319–1324. 71. This policy sparked outrage, see Contemporary Review 62 (January 1929), 1–2; Times, 8 January 8 1929, 14; Dix, Shape of the Liturgy, 709. For events occurring after 1928, see Jarvis, Anglican Liturgy, chap. 6. 72. Evidence III.395–6. 73. Ibid. 396. 74. Parliament used this veto power in 1927, and again in 1928. 75. Report of the Archbishops’ Committee on Church and State (London: SPCK, 1916); Gary W. Graber, ‘Reforming Ecclesiastical Self-Government within the Establishment: The Enabling Act, 1919’, in Thomas P. Power, ed., Change and Transformation: Essays in Anglican History (Eugene: Oregon: Wipf and Stock, 2013), 212–45; and David Thompson, ‘The Politics of the Enabling Act (1919)’, in Derek Barker, ed., Church Society and Politics (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1975). 76. Even Newman attempted to reinterpret the Articles of Religion, not ignore them. 77. Chapman, Anglicanism, 10.

Education Reforms in Colonial Africa: Dynamics, Challenges and Impact on Christian Missions MWITA AKIRI

This essay examines education reforms and policies during the British colonial occupation in Africa from the 1920s onwards and the impact on Christian missions with special attention to Tanzania.1 First, it highlights the influence of the American Phelps-Stokes Commissions on the British colonial government, mission leaders and educationists in Europe and Africa. Second, it analyses the debate and divisions that emerged among the Christian missions and between the missions and the British colonial administration. Third, it explores the ‘unintended’ benefits of colonial reforms and policies for Africans.

The Phelps-Stokes Commissions The American influence on African education in the 1920s and the political impact it had on secular and religious education during the colonial period has been explored in detail.2 Early in 1919, Thomas Jesse Jones, then the director of the Phelps-Stokes Fund (a philanthropic organization started in May 1911 in New York), began persuading his organization about the need for a survey of African education which might eventually show similarity between the educational needs of Africans in Africa, and those of the African Americans in the southern states of America. Prior to this, he had already shared similar views at the World Missionary Conference (WMC) at Edinburgh in 1910. The Africa section of the Report of Commission III of the WMC entitled Education in Relation to the Christianisation of National Life shows that Jones’ ideas became influential. It concludes by pointing out that the value of industrial and agricultural training for the black race had been ‘abundantly

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proved by the experience of the Normal and Agricultural Institute at Hampton, Virginia, and the Normal and Industrial School at Tuskegee, Alabama’.3 Coincidentally, the Baptist Foreign Missionary Society in America had expressed the need for a study of African education in West Africa to be carried out by the Phelps-Stokes Fund. This led to the formation of the first PhelpsStokes Commission that toured West African countries between September 1920 and August 1921. This first commission sometimes is referred to as ‘the commission to West Africa’. Jones chaired this commission and authored its report, published in 1922,4 which proposed what it regarded as ‘a solution to…the problem of educated African[s], the over-supply of clerks, the mission boy, or [the] black Englishman’.5 Later, Jones chaired the second commission which toured East and Central Africa in 1924, and again authored its report, which was published in 1925.6 Through these commissions, the ideological and racial assumptions, implications, and controversies that surrounded the education of African Americans in the southern states of America itself were now being transported to Africa. Essentially, Jones propagated three things about education for Africans and African Americans. First, it should be different from the literary education offered to the white race. Second, it should be ‘for life’, that is to say, it should be adapted to address what was regarded as the economic ‘backwardness’ of Africans and African Americans. Third, it should focus on agriculture as ‘the key’ to the economic future of the peoples of the two regions. Yet, at the heart of the matter was this: Jones and his sympathizers believed that by providing that alternative education, Africans and African Americans could be ‘immunized successfully against politics’7 and made to co-operate submissively with Western colonial settlers and educators. Some African Americans including W. E. B. Du Bois and Marcus Garvey opposed Jones’ ideas. Du Bois criticized Jones’ dislike of African advance through academic education, fear of African independence and his inclination toward the views and needs of white missionaries in Africa. On his part, Garvey argued that education offered to Africans and African Americans should be the same as that of the Europeans and white people in general.8

British Government Policy on Education in Africa In Britain, The Privy Council Memorandum on Industrial Schools for Coloured Races produced in 1847 by the committee of the Council on Education was the first serious policy document on education in British colonies. Later on, it was used in African countries under British occupation. It recognized the influence of Christianity in education, especially in character development.

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Equally, it sought ‘to make the school the means of improving the condition of the peasantry’ to give the ‘coloured’ races ‘practical training in household economy’ and the knowledge to apply writing and arithmetic skills to daily life, and to give ‘the small farmer the power to enter into calculations and agreements’.9 The memorandum singled out day schools and model farms as the two most important institutions required for the achievement of the objects of education for the ‘coloured’ races. However, the impact of this policy was minimal, perhaps because neither the colonial government nor the missions had sufficient resources to implement it. At least this was the case in West Africa.10 The second major British policy initiative on African education took place in the early twentieth century after the tour of the first Phelps-Stokes Commission to West Africa, leading to a conference in London in June 1923 on ‘the future of Native Education in Africa’.11 The attendees included British government officials and those on service in the territories occupied by Britain in Africa, including some governors. There were also representatives from churches, missions, ecumenical bodies and philanthropic bodies. J. H. Oldham, secretary of the International Missionary Council (IMC), and Thomas Jesse Jones, director of the Phelps-Stokes Fund, were among those present. The conference was convened with the sole purpose of considering the memorandum entitled Education Policy in Africa submitted to the Colonial Office by the Education Committee of the Conference of Missionary Societies in Great Britain and Ireland.12 The conference of June 1923 resulted in the formation of the Advisory Committee on Native Education in Tropical Africa (ACNETA). In March 1925, the Advisory Committee submitted to the British government its first policy statement, Education Policy in British Tropical Africa. The tone and terminology used indicate that the committee was significantly influenced by the reports of the two Phelps-Stokes Commissions. So much so, that a paragraph in the memorandum reads: Education should be adapted to mentality, aptitudes, occupations and traditions of various peoples, conserving as far possible all sound and healthy elements in the fabric of their social life…Its aim should be to render the individual more efficient in his or her own condition of life, whatever it may be, and promote the advancement of the community as a whole through the improvement of agriculture, the development of native industries, [and] the improvement of health.13

This approach to education was radically different from what the majority of the Christian missions had been doing, and was likely to alienate many missions and their educational work, which was basically literary and evangelistic

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in nature. Even so, the missions were still needed if the new policy had to be implemented successfully. They had the educational structures. But the nature of co-operation, if this was achievable at all, became a subject of much debate within the missions, and between them and the colonial government. The debate involved white politicians, settlers, secular educationists and missionaries.

The Le Zoute Conference and ‘Education for Life’ The debate within the missions is best illustrated by the Le Zoute Conference. The conference was convened by the IMC in Belgium in September 1926. Its title was ‘The Christian Mission in Africa’, the same title of a book by Edwin Smith, the official historian of the conference.14 There were 221 delegates, the majority of them white people. Only four Africans and seven African Americans were present. Some have described the Le Zoute Conference as ‘basically a conference of Europeans talking about Africa’.15 The conference debated and made resolutions on many educational issues with political and economic implications. Those who accepted the idea of co-operation followed Jones’ philosophy on education. They argued that, although until then the missions were the chief providers of education in Africa, such education had been largely literary and evangelistic. This had to be broadened. What was now needed was ‘education for life’ covering health and sanitation; appreciation and use of the environment, household and home; as well as recreation. In his paper at Le Zoute, ‘The Relation of Christian Missions to the New Forces that are Reshaping African Life’, J. H. Oldham called for ‘a fresh advance, a further step forward, an enlargement of our conception of the mission of the Christian Church’.16 In general, official resolutions at Le Zoute were favourable to the idea that it was necessary to broaden and change the nature of education and that it was important for the missions to co-operate with the colonial governments to implement policies based on Jones’ ideas. Roland Allen, an Anglican missiologist, and Norman Leys, a secular educationist working in Kenya in the 1920s, were among those opposed to the new approach. In response to those who supported the idea of co-operation, and to Oldham’s paper, Allen accused Oldham of operating out of a liberal agenda which encouraged missions to become government agents by forsaking their ‘proper work’ of evangelism. Allen appealed to experience in British history, particularly in England in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.17 He argued that during this period, British government intervention in

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education, served only to weaken church schools while government schools became stronger. The same was likely to happen in Africa.18 Allen’s objections centred on the future of mission education as a tool for evangelism. Leys focused more on the political implications of the adaptation of education for the future of Africans. He cited the Kenyan context to support his case, but his argument had wider application. According to Leys, the purpose of Jones’ philosophy on education was to induce rural Kenyans to leave the land and become wageworkers for Europeans. If missions entered into partnership with a government that refused Kenyans any rights in land ownership, and Kenyans realized that in Christianity ‘missions offer them something less than the fullest life they can realize, they will as the years pass increasingly turn elsewhere than to the Church’.19 The aim of mission education, Leys argued, was to enlighten; and given the meagre resources missions possessed, he reckoned that the task had been done well. He criticized the influence of Oldham, noting that the kind of partnership between government and missions that Oldham and others proposed was one that would alter the nature of mission education in Africa. Though not exhaustive, this exchange was representative of a complex debate within missions. A case study of Tanzania illustrates its dimensions further.

Colonial Educational Policy in Tanzania 1919–1924 Tanzania (then known as German East Africa, and later Tanganyika) was still officially under German occupation until after the end of the First World War. By September 1916, however, the German colonial administration had almost collapsed and by November 1917, German forces had surrendered in Tanzania. Though Tanzania became a British mandate in 1919, it was not until 1922 that the mandate was confirmed officially by the League of Nations. Until then, the task of providing education in Tanzania was largely in the hands of the missions, including the Church Missionary Society (CMS). The British colonial educational policy in Tanzania under the first governor, Horace Byatt (1916–1924), was not so different from that of the German colonial administration. Like its predecessor, the British colonial government’s priority was to use the schools to build up a supply of low-ranking administrative personnel. Christian missions also continued their activities with a relative degree of independence in terms of the administration of schools and finance, and the use of schools to evangelize those attending them and their communities. Even the teachers at mission schools, especially elementary (village) schools, were both responsible for teaching in the

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classroom and for evangelistic work. This continued until 1924. In sum, the government and missions pursued separate educational enterprises with minimal interaction.

Change of Colonial Educational Policy in Tanzania from 1925 Onwards However, this arrangement was short-lived. A major policy document entitled Education Policy in British Tropical Africa came into force. Some of the issues highlighted at the Le Zoute Conference, such as the quality of schools and teachers, featured in the colonial education policy for Africa. As in other countries under British occupation, the policy affected the work of missions in Tanzania, directly or indirectly. The impact was felt far and wide. Until 1925, 17 missions in Tanzania (12 Protestant and 5 Catholic) were the major providers of secular education through a network of out-schools also known as ‘bush schools’. A colonial government education report for 1922– 1923 shows that there were 2,200 mission schools with 115,000 pupils and thousands of teachers. In comparison, there were only sixty-five government schools with just over 100 African teachers.20 Despite the major contribution to the education sector by the missions, mission education never remained the same from 1925 onwards. The colonial education policy affected the status of the elementary village schools. It is this category of schools that was also a subject of debate at Le Zoute. But more significantly, it is in this category where much of the evangelization took place and where the contribution of the indigenous African teachers was most notable. The protagonists of the education approach proposed by Jones realized that it was through these places that the majority of the population was to be reached with new ideas of education for life. Therefore, these schools could not be ignored. Another reason why the education offered by missions in the village schools attracted attention was that even prior to 1925 the British colonial administration in Tanzania under Byatt was concerned about the potential political consequences of leaving scattered village schools unsupervised. The schools could breed radical youths capable of challenging the colonial administration. For this reason, the colonial government felt it was important that it should have a say in what went on in the mission schools. It was important that, as Jones had thought, the Africans had to be ‘immunized’ against politics and this had to start happening at the elementary schools, at least covertly.

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Re-Definition of the Role of the Village Schools and Indigenous Teachers As part of the effort to conceal the intention of controlling the African in the mission schools, the missions were criticized for dwelling on literary education in the village schools rather than living up to their potential to support practical education. Poor supervision was singled out as a major cause of this failure. Indeed earlier, Jones had already given sufficient negative publicity about the state of village schools and the indigenous teachers who taught in them. He described the village schools as ‘little nothings’, neglected, poor and unsupervised. Their buildings are often ugly shacks with no equipment, distinguishable from Native huts only by their size…a large number of their teachers are ignorant and untrained, ‘blind leaders of the blind,’ either futile as regards community influence or exercising an influence which has no basis in reality.21

As Du Bois and Garvey had asserted, Jones’ comments on the state of the mission schools should be viewed in the context of his dislike for literary (academic) education for Africans and religious education, as well as the use of mission schools for evangelization. More significantly, one must be aware of his political and perhaps racial motives to keep the African in ‘his or her place’. From the colonial government’s point of view, and that of the PhelpsStokes Commissions, the remedy for the village schools had to come from the system of supervision advocated by the Jeanes School.22 James Dillard, President of Jeanes and Slater Funds, and a member of the second PhelpsStokes Commission, agreed.23 He himself viewed the out-schools as ‘the most outstanding problem’.24 In the Jeanes system, an itinerant teacher was appointed for regular supervision of schools. Jones proposed that this system be ‘introduced by colonial governments and mission societies for the supervision of the village schools in every part of Africa’.25 In Tanzania, the British colonial government (now under Governor Donald Cameron, Byatt’s successor as of 1925) indicated its ‘approval of the plan of itinerant teachers to guide and encourage little schools throughout the territory’.26 Cameron saw the relevance and applicability of his administrative style of ‘indirect rule’ for African education because it emphasized the use of indigenous institutions.27 So, arguably—and perhaps more than Byatt—Cameron was eager for educational reforms. Soon after the visit of the second commission of the Phelps-Stokes Fund in 1924 to Tanzania, the British colonial government there held a conference with the missions in 1925. Governor Cameron chaired the conference. The

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questions of supervision, the status of village schools and indigenous teachers formed a key part of the discussion. This was a major indicator that the British colonial government in Tanzania had taken on board the call for the transformation of the status of the village schools and of the indigenous teachers, as proposed by Jones. It is striking that indigenous teachers described by Jones as ‘blind leaders of the blind’ were to be the light—but of course after being transformed through a new approach to education, the so-called ‘education for life’. However, it is doubtful if supervision through itinerant teachers ever gained prominence or became an ongoing government educational policy in Tanzania in the manner it did through Jeanes schools in Kenya, Malawi, Zambia and Zimbabwe.28

Some Responses to Colonial Education Policy As a result of the 1925 conference, the Advisory Committee for Native Education (ACNE) was formed in Tanzania in 1926. Given their prominence in the provision of education, missions had hoped that the formation of this committee would recognize and enhance their role and foster co-operation between the government and the missions. Indeed earlier, the colonial government gave some assurances that actually were stated in the education policy document produced in 1925: first, that ‘all elementary instruction [is] to be [given] in the mother tongue’; second, that ‘religious instruction [is] to be one of the main subjects as the chief means of character building’; and third, that ‘elementary schools and the training of teachers for them [are] to be the special task of the missions’; and fourth, ‘as far as possible the schools were to be fitted into the background and requirements of native life’.29 Far from the colonial government honouring these assurances and allowing the missions to continue pursuing education along the 1925 policy lines, the missionaries were rather surprised and puzzled when on 25th February, 1927, a new comprehensive ‘Native Education Ordinance’ (NEO) was published in Dar es Salaam. This ordinance laid down a pretentious Government educational programme along the lines which to some extent diverged from those of the preceding conferences.30

There were six main points or conditions in the ordinance that alarmed the missions. These were: (a) All schools shall be put under Government supervision. No school may be opened unless registered. New schools must satisfy the Provincial Education Committee that they are necessary and that they have a

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(b) (c) (d)

(e) (f)

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minimum staff. Bush schools which do not conform to the Government syllabus to be closed within five years. Instruction to be, even in the bush schools, exclusively in the Swahili language. Central Schools (Intermediate) with a four years’ course to be exclusively in English. Teachers of the first grade must have passed at least Standard IV of the Central schools and have had four years’ teacher training; second grade teachers must have passed the vernacular school and have had two years’ training. No person shall be allowed to teach in a Government or assisted [mission] school who is not registered as a first or second grade teacher, or is at least on the provisional list. Religious instruction to be allowed only outside of the regular school hours. Approved schools shall get Government grants up to two-thirds of the salaries paid to African teachers and to £300 for the European staff.31

These conditions sounded like a death sentence to the freedom of the missions to carry on educational activities as before. Missions were now faced with the prospect of closing down the village schools that did not conform to new government standards. All this—let alone the obvious marginalization of religious instruction in the school timetable—was a serious blow. The second meeting of ACNE took place in Dar es Salaam in 1927. Delegates from Anglican, Roman Catholic and Lutheran missions attended. The committee made it clear that unregistered schools would not be inspected. Neither could they get grant-in-aid until registered. Also, teachers in the unregistered schools had to be paid according to government scales. The expulsion of pupils was possible but the missions had to report, through their education secretaries, to the Director of Education. Teachers were not to be recruited simply for their spiritual enthusiasm but for their qualifications. With a sense of urgency, Protestant missions, particularly those of German origin, responded to the 1927 ordinance by convening a meeting at Marangu (in northern Tanzania) in September 1928. Non-German missions were also invited to attend as guests. The meeting made the following counter-responses: 1. That religious instruction be taught in all schools, including those under the grants-in-aid system, that this be done in a Christian atmosphere, and within regular school hours.

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MWITA AKIRI 2. That no restrictions should be imposed on the missions with regard to establishing unregistered and unassisted village schools for evangelistic purposes because Muslims were allowed to start similar schools. 3. That instruction in the first years at the elementary schools be in the vernacular, but Kiswahili be taught as a main subject, the latter becoming the medium of instruction in later years. 4. That indigenous teachers be trained in Kiswahili with English taught only as a subject. 5. That grants for teachers be paid, not direct to the teachers but to the school.32 6. That the missions and the schools concerned be notified of inspection visits by government inspectors beforehand to avoid being caught off-guard.33

The colonial government offered only minimum assurances in response to these suggestions. On the whole, it maintained its position as stated in the 1927 ordinance. The issue of the basis on which government grants-in-aid should be disbursed to registered schools (also known as assisted schools) became contentious too. In theory, guidelines in the broader policy document of 1925 established that the government would give voluntary agencies (the missions) grants-in-aid. The 1933 policy document, entitled Memorandum on Educational Grants-in-Aid, gave further assurances on this matter. Yet, the colonial government disbursed grants-in-aid to mission schools on the basis of the quality of secular education, not of religious teaching. In fact, far from the missions acquiring an automatic recognition, they had to earn their status and place in the new national educational front through efficiency. That is to say, ‘grants-in-aid were rewards for efficiency rather than the means to attain efficiency’.34 It is at this time that Archbishop Arthur Hinsley (a papal delegate) gave his famous advice to Catholic missions in Tanzania: collaborate with your power; and where it is impossible to carry on both the immediate task of evangelization and your educational work, neglect your churches in order to perfect your schools.35

Despite tokens of smooth co-operation and clarifications given by the British colonial government, and by its giving of grants to mission institutions that fulfilled the criteria set out in the 1927 ordinance, some missions viewed government intervention as disruptive and marginalizing. For other missions though, particularly those with meagre financial resources, such as the

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CMS and the Universities’ Mission to Central Africa (UMCA), the system of grants-in-aid was crucial for the success of their work. Both of these missionary societies were British in origin. It is possible that this factor played a part in their acceptance of financial help. The other possible, and even more plausible, factor was that both had financial challenges for funding education and operations. (Other non-British missions feared the erosion of their autonomy and did not automatically apply for grants.) Nonetheless, like other missions, both the CMS and the UMCA were equally frustrated by the educational restrictions that the British colonial government imposed on all Christian missions. Indeed, the issue of the standard of education in village schools in Tanzania remained a contentious one between the government and the missions for a long time after the introduction of the 1927 ordinance. Government criticism of such schools never ceased. It accused some of the missions for being vocal against co-operation and impugning the fairness of the colonial government, ‘but an interpretation of their view often appears to be that the state should pay everything and the church control everything’.36 Despite such an uncomfortable and frustrating situation that this experience caused to the Christian missions, some—if not most—of them began to show a change of heart and saw some value in the ideas of Jones and changes made by the colonial government. There was an indication that they were now convinced that educational wisdom is on their side; if the danger of an intellectual inflation and of an unhealthy caricature of ‘White’ civilization is to be avoided, native education must be fitted in with the natives’ background and surrounding.37

A clue to this change of heart may be seen in the context of the Marangu meeting in 1928. There, among other things, missions expressed concern over the danger of ‘fostering the spirit of independence’ among the African teachers, though of course not in the political context as would have been seen by the colonial government. The colonial government feared political dissent. Missions feared the erosion of the authority and control of the missionaries over the African teachers.

Language Debate and the Philosophy of Education for Life Another area of contention between the Christian missions and the British colonial government was the issue of the medium of instruction in schools. At the Le Zoute Conference in 1926, the debate on language centred on

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whether English or the vernacular languages should be used, and at which levels of education. There were those who argued that the vernacular should be given preference, especially at the elementary level. The whole issue of the vernacular languages was closely linked with the politics of education for the masses, and of the preservation of African institutions. The official resolution on language at Le Zoute supported this idea: the use of the vernacular as a medium of instruction in elementary education. English could then be introduced in the later years. Tanzania was unique in that it had a third language for consideration, namely, Kiswahili. In places like Tanzania, linguae francae such as Kiswahili and English, were a better solution to the language problem.38 These had the potential of uniting pupils from different ethnic groups and wider geographical areas who attended mission schools. The use of the vernacular served only to foster, if not to enhance, tribal identities and allegiances—a reality that has continued to haunt many African nations years after the end of colonial occupation. With regard to the language debate, there was a major alternative view at Le Zoute that did not feature in the official resolutions of the conference. C. T. Loram (a member of the Native Affairs Commission in South Africa, and of the two Phelps-Stokes Commissions) noted that Africans knew that the key to the attainment of the white man’s power lies in the white man’s language. Any attempt to adopt the vernacular as the medium of instruction would meet with strong opposition of certain classes of literate Africans who would feel that the door of opportunity was slammed in the face of their children. Moreover, English is in some regions the language of Government and commerce, and the African who does not know English is placed at great disadvantage—he is at the mercy of unscrupulous white men.39

Loram was correct in his views. The issue of the use of the vernacular in African education necessitated the Advisory Committee on Native Education’s drawing up a memorandum entitled The Place of the Vernacular in Native Education in 1927. To some extent the memorandum focused on some of the socio-economic and even political aspirations of Africans. It argued that there can be no doubt that one of the main incentives, if not the incentive, of African parents in sending their sons to school is for them to acquire a knowledge of English. A knowledge of English is naturally regarded by them as the principal means whereby economic advance can be obtained by them in later life. Any attempt, therefore, to delay unduly the introduction of English into African schools would be regarded as an attempt of the Government to hold back the African from legitimate advance in civilization.40

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This echoed Loram’s views which indicate that not all white people in government agreed with the policies that were intended to keep the African in place. If one might leap into the post-colonial era (outside the basic period under consideration here), perhaps nowhere in Africa has a non-European language such as Kiswahili served positively both the social and political purposes for Africans as in Tanzania. Unlike many other African countries that use English, French or Portuguese as national languages, Tanzania has been fortunate to have Kiswahili as its national language.41 In fact, Tanzania prides itself as having the purest form of Kiswahili—hence the saying that Kiswahili was born and reared in Tanzania, got sick in Kenya, died in Uganda and got buried in the Congo. Over 120 distinct ethnic groups in Tanzania alone use it for communication with one another. It certainly has played a major role in fostering the spirit of nationhood. The vernaculars remain domestic languages and are not used in public speech or in schools.

You are ‘Eagles and Not Chickens’: The Educational Aspirations of the Africans In its battle with missions for the Africans, the British colonial government in Tanzania believed that on the issue of educational advance it had Africans on its side because Africans wanted better academic education. The colonial government and a few educationists wanted the English language to be introduced at an early stage of schooling. On the other hand, as noted above, most missions in Tanzania objected to the use of English as an exclusive language of instruction in lower and even higher levels of schooling. Since the government objected to the use of the vernacular, the missions were willing to settle for Kiswahili instead, but in central schools.42 Even at this level, there was disagreement. The colonial government wanted Kiswahili to be used at elementary level, and English in central schools and higher. The government’s motive was to build the task-force to assist in its administration of the country. Despite such ulterior motives, the indigenous teachers noted that the level of education in many of the elementary schools owned by Christian missions, such as the CMS, was lower, and was offered mostly in the vernacular. Therefore the indigenous teachers were pleased that the government wanted improvement in this area. Indeed, whenever there was a clash of interests among the foreign missionaries belonging to one mission, or when Christian missions differed among themselves or with the colonial government, the African benefited—however

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limited that benefit was. As far as education was concerned, Africans wanted to be eagles that could fly, and not chickens that could not. The phrase, ‘you are eagles, not chickens’, is attributed to James Kwegyir Aggrey, a Ghanaian member of the second Phelps-Stokes Commission that toured East Africa in 1924.43 According to King, he was a ‘the prototype of the good African’, that is, someone willing to co-operate with white people on their terms. Aggrey’s biographer, Edwin Smith, recorded one of his speeches in which he told the story of an eagle that would not fly because it had been tamed as a chicken. While addressing the Africans during the East African tour, Aggrey said: My people of Africa, we were created in the image of God, but men have made us think that we are chickens, and we still think we are; but we are eagles. Stretch forth your wings and fly.44

Aggrey supported wholeheartedly the need for co-operation between government and missions, and apparently the philosophy of practical education for life. Though he did not go to the Le Zoute Conference, Aggrey’s impact on the question of co-operation between government and missions in Africa was significant. His impact on his fellow Africans, especially in Tanzania, derived from reasons quite different from the philosophy of practical education for life that he stressed during the tour. Local Tanzanians who met Aggrey admired him greatly for the respect he commanded among the whites during the tour, and for the fact that he stayed at the British governor’s residence in Dar es Salaam. The Tanzanians knew that this was possible only because Aggrey had academic qualifications and studied in English, not in the vernacular. There is no doubt that indigenous African teachers were frustrated by the poor educational level in CMS missions, particularly because, unlike in other missions (notably the UMCA), teaching in CMS missions was hardly done in English. One informant, Yusufu Masingisa, who was 93 years old in 1997, could still remember Aggrey and recalled the impact of his visit.45 He was one of the teachers who regarded the level of education in CMS missions as poor simply because it was offered in the vernacular. Masingisa was a teacher from 1921 to 1926, but quit his post for six years, hoping to go to Malawi (then Nyasaland) where the UMCA was also operating. Unfortunately, he never made it because it was too far away. Nevertheless, later, he was chosen to study nursing at a local school. Despite its many restrictions on mission education, colonial educational policy wanted a certain level of African education to be offered in English. Africans found this liberating, though as has been stressed above, the colonial government had a very different purpose for doing this. Surprisingly, the

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majority of the Christian missions felt that education in the English language was ‘too much education’ for the African.

Socio-Economic Benefits for Indigenous African Teachers One of the significant outcomes of the impetus given to education by the British colonial government in Tanzania in the mid-1920s and afterward was the enhancement of the social and economic prospects of some indigenous teachers who served in the missions after going through teacher training courses. The government-mandated upgrading of the standard of the mission’s village schools meant also raising teachers’ qualifications. In this way, teacher training became the apex of the educational ladder in most missions.46 Better training meant better salary. Though serving under CMS, like all licensed teachers, those who had government certificates were now receiving their salary from the government. Most missions feared that such a move would erode their authority because teachers would know that the colonial government was their real boss. Better training and more government control through regulations brought with it job security and a new sense of freedom. There was now a degree of protection against frequent suspensions or dismissals of indigenous teachers by missionaries on the basis of offences or allegations that were not related to capacity to fulfil their professional duty. Now, even when teachers refused to carry out some of their expected but unjustified duties, they could not be removed easily. There were reports of strikes by indigenous African teachers, or departures from mission schools to government schools. This was one of the outcomes of education reforms that the missions feared. Indigenous African teachers continued to perform their traditional dual task: school work and spiritual (church) work, including evangelization. Most—if not all—of the indigenous African teachers serving in CMS missions and other missions fulfilled their duties with great commitment and loyalty to God, even as they benefited from the educational reforms. It seems that foreign CMS missionaries (as also those belonging to other Christian missions) were rather unprepared to deal with the new sense of freedom among African teachers occurring as a result of the new education policies. Being a product of their era, foreign missionaries made serious miscalculations regarding the level of the Africans’ aspiration to prosper and to be free. Perhaps more sharply than before, the policy reforms highlighted the distinction between the traditional church teacher and the new school teacher in the missions. But this new status brought with it the new challenge of belonging to two masters: the mission and the colonial government. Serving two masters was

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often a difficult task. In most cases, it was not the African but the foreign missionaries who were the losers, at least in a limited way, in that they lost a degree of control over the indigenous African teachers.

Conclusion This essay has argued for a corrective to the common view found both in Africa and in the West that white people (be they colonizers or missionaries) were often of a common mind on issues regarding Africans. This is particularly important when one recalls that Christian missions have often been accused of being the bearers of the colonial flags and supporters of the unjust policies of colonial governments. While this accusation is partly true, it was not the case concerning education in Tanzania from the 1920s onwards. Indeed, during the colonial era, Africa was the scene of multiple perspectives and struggles on matters of education for Africans and on other social and political issues, both within the Christian missions themselves and within secular circles. No one power or entity had total control of the outcome of the policies, initiatives or struggles. If, for example, Jones and the British colonial government had hoped they would keep Africans in their place by moving away from a literary to a more practical education, they were in for a surprise. The racial motives wrapped up in the education policies and reforms brought with them some socio-economic benefits and freedom for Africans. These benefits and freedom would hardly have come so soon within the missions, if mission education had continued to be primarily evangelistic in nature. Surely, some policies and decisions of the British colonial government in Tanzania included the imposition of restrictions on the teaching of religious education in schools and the control of the process of opening of new schools disregarded the primary nature of the work of the missions. However, it is evident that prior to colonial government initiative in education (especially from the mid-1920s), perhaps some missions (especially CMS missions) had become too complacent about the quality and level of education they offered. Equally, Christian missions in many places in Africa were slow in coming to terms with African aspirations at a personal level, even at the time when colonial governments were nervous about the threat of the African after acquiring education, a key tool that they felt gave the white people progress and power to dominate Africans in the secular and Christian spheres. Missions were often slow to realize that a future African church would need well-educated leaders. Enthusiasm for evangelism both among the foreign missionaries and the Africans who offered themselves for church service masked the fact that, as an

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institution, the church in Africa would soon require, and continue to require, well-trained lay staff for secular professions. Years later, history seems to be repeating itself. The African church in many places continues to struggle to attract well-trained lay people with qualifications that can change the level of efficiency of the church in mission and development. Positively, the foreign missionaries who served in the many Christian missions must be praised for the legacy that they have left for the African church, namely, the desire for effective horizontal evangelistic expansion. Christian missions in Africa fought hard to protect this traditional line of their work in the face of relentless marginalization and intervention. These efforts were not in vain. Today, it is common to find older leaders, academics and civil servants who recall vividly the spiritual and evangelistic efforts of the foreign missionaries in mission schools and how their lives and those of many others outside the school were changed. This is not a small consolation. The full success of the philosophy of education for life, one that moved away from being literary to one that was more practical, remains a matter of debate. However, policy reforms and regulations on education in Africa clearly caused a huge tremor that shook the educational work of the missions at its very foundation.

Notes 1. This essay is a revision of ‘Secularization of Mission Education and Its Impact’, the seventh chapter of my unpublished doctoral thesis The Growth of Christianity in Ugogo and Ukaguru (Central Tanzania): A Socio-Historical Analysis of the Role of Indigenous Agents 1876–1933 (PhD Dissertation, University of Edinburgh, 1999). 2. Kenneth J. King, Pan-Africanism and Education: A Study of Race Philanthropy and Education in the Southern States of America and East Africa (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971). 3. Report of Commission III: Education in Relation to the Christianisation of National Life, World Missionary Conference 1910, vol. 3 (Edinburgh & London: Anderson & Ferrier, and Fleming H. Revel, 1910), 277. 4. Thomas Jesse Jones, Education in Africa: A Study of West, South and Equatorial Africa (New York: Phelps-Stokes Fund, 1922). 5. King, Pan-Africanism, 45. 6. Thomas Jesse Jones, Education in East Africa: A Study of East, Central and South Africa by the Second African Education Commission under the Auspices of the PhelpsStokes Fund, in Co-operation with the International Board (New York: Phelps-Stokes Fund, 1925). 7. King, Pan-Africanism, 258. 8. Ibid. 144–5, 258. 9. Brief Practical Suggestions on the Mode of Organizing and Conducting Day-Schools of Industry, Model Farm Schools, and Normal Schools, as Part of a System of Education for

196

10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28.

29. 30.

MWITA AKIRI the Coloured Races of the British Colonies, Miscellaneous Pamphlets 1–2 (London: W. Clowes for HMSO Colonial Office Library, 1847). H. S. Scott, ‘The Development of the Education of the African in Relation to Western Contact’, in The Year Book of Education 1938 (London: Evans Brothers, 1938), 711. W. Ormsby-Gore, ‘Education in the British Dependencies in Tropical Africa’, in The Year Book of Education 1932 (London: Evans Brothers, 1932), 748. Education Policy in Africa: A Memorandum Submitted on behalf of the Conference of Missionary Societies in Great Britain and Ireland (London: 1923). J. H. Oldham was the author of the memorandum. See H. S. Scott, ‘Educational Policy in the British Colonial Empire’, in The Year Book of Education 1937 (London: Evans Brothers, 1937), 413. Advisory Committee on Native Education in Tropical Africa, 1925, 2. Edwin Smith, The Christian Mission in Africa: a study based on the work of the International Conference at Le Zoute, Belgium, September 14th to 21st, 1926 (London: Edinburgh House, 1926). T. Jack Thompson, Christianity in Northern Malawi: Donald Fraser’s Missionary Methods and Ngoni Culture (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1995), 250. Smith, Christian Mission, 162. Emphasis added. S. J. Curtis, History of Education in Great Britain, 5th ed. (London: Universal Tutorial Press, 1963). This volume was first published in 1948. For the struggles between church and state in education in England in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, see especially chapters six and seven. Roland Allen, Le Zoute: A Critical Review of ‘The Christian Mission in Africa’, (London: World Dominion Press, 1927), 11–36. Norman Leys, ‘Missions and Government: Objects of Education’, The Scots Observer 1/9 (27 November 1926), 13. Jones, Education in East Africa, 183. Ibid. 59. Jackson Davis, ‘The Jeanes Visiting Teachers in the Southern States’, in Report of the Inter-Territorial Jeanes Conference (Salisbury, Southern Rhodesia, 27 May to 6 June 1935), 14–25. Jones, Education in East Africa, xxi. King, Pan-Africanism, 151. From a conversation between Dillard and Oldham on 7 May 1924. Jones, Education in East Africa, 44. Ibid. 192. Indirect Rule was an administrative arrangement whereby the British and French colonial governments used pre-existing African traditional political structures to advance colonial interests. In this arrangement, local rulers, especially the chiefs, were given limited powers under colonial officials. James W. C. Dougall, ‘School Education and Native Life’, Africa 3/1 (January 1930), 49; for an insiders’ own view of the Jeanes Schools in Kenya, Malawi, Zambia and Zimbabwe, see Report of the Inter-Territorial Jeanes Conference, Salisbury (South Africa: Lovedale Press, 1935). Julius Richter, Tanganyika and Its Future (London: World Dominion Press, 1934), 65. Ibid. 65.

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31. Minutes, Advisory Committee on Native Education (21–22 February 1927); cf. Richter, Tanganyika, 65–6. 32. The only apparent reason for this particular response was to avoid fostering the spirit of independence among indigenous African teachers. 33. Resolutions, Conference of Evangelical Missions, Marangu, September 1928 (IMC/ CBMS files, School of Oriental and African Studies); cf. Richter, Tanganyika, 66. 34. A. R. Thompson, ‘Historical Survey of the role of the Churches in education from pre-colonial days to post-independence’, in Allan J. Gottneid, ed., Church and Education in Tanzania (Nairobi: East Africa Publishing House, 1976), 67. See also A. Victor Murray, The School in the Bush: A Critical Study in the History and Nature of Native Education in Africa, 2nd ed. (London: Frank Cass, 1967), 265. 35. Thompson ‘Historical Survey’, 44–5. 36. Ibid. 40. My emphasis. 37. Richter, Tanganyika, 67. 38. Kiswahili is widely used in Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi and DRC Congo, and others such as Mozambique and Malawi, though only on a very small scale in areas bordering Tanzania. 39. Smith, Christian Mission, 68–9. 40. British Tropical Africa: the Place of the Vernacular in Native Education, a Memorandum by the Advisory Committee on Native Education (London: Colonial Office, May 1927), 10–11. 41. Most government documents in Tanzania are in two languages: Kiswahili and English. Most court proceedings are in Kiswahili, but the records are in English. The police record their documents primarily in English, including the charge papers used in court. 42. J. Raum, ‘Educational Problems’, The International Review of Mission 19 (1930), 567. Central schools were of a higher level than village schools. 43. King, Pan-Africanism, 232. 44. Edwin Smith, Aggrey of Africa: A Study in Black and White (London: Student Christian Movement, 1929), 136–7. 45. Yusufu Masingisa, Oral interviews conducted September 16–17, 1997. 46. Gordon Hewitt, The Problems of Success: A History of the Church Missionary Society 1910–1942, in Tropical Africa, the Middle East and at Home, vol. 1 (London: SCM [for CMS], 1971), 199.

No Need to Turn Out the Lights: Anglicans in Canada in the Twentieth and Twenty-First Centuries BRIAN CLARKE

AND

STUART MACDONALD

‘Will the last Anglican please turn off the lights?’ blared the headline in the National Post in 2006. The story explained that the McKerracher Report (delivered to the bishops of the Anglican Church of Canada) predicted that the church would be extinct by the middle of the twenty-first century. The headlines were based ostensibly on a report given to the semi-annual meeting of the House of Bishops, and the comment highlighted in the headlines was that ‘the last Anglican in Canada will turn out the lights in 2061’.1 Although the report was based on an oral presentation, it did identify a truth: the Anglican Church in Canada had experienced numerical decline. At the same time, there seemed to be no clear evidence, supported in one of the statements made in the news reports that either the Anglican Church was declining faster than all other Canadian Protestant denominations, or that an inevitable end was in sight. In fact, a close reading of Anglican membership statistics and other statistics such as Sunday school attendance and attendance at Easter services, indicate that the strength of affiliation in the Anglican Church persisted for a long time, thereby revealing how recent the numerical downturn identified in the presentation has been. Such an approach also allows for comparison with other Canadian Protestant denominations and places developments in Anglican membership in a broader context.

Anglicans in the Census The Canadian census offers a unique window into religious affiliation in Canada over the long term.2 Every ten years since 1871, Canadians have been asked, ‘What is your religion?’ The questionnaire usually asks people to

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stipulate which group they belong to, even if they are not currently practicing members. The survey questionnaire is designed to elicit how people identify themselves. What census affiliation keeps track of is who identifies themselves and their dependents as Anglicans. The census reveals that Anglicans have long been a significant component of the Protestant population in Canada. Indeed, Anglicans (identified in the census either as affiliates of the Church of England in Canada before the 1961 census or as affiliates of the Anglican Church of Canada since) have been the third, then the second largest Protestant denomination in the country (Table 1). In 1871, Anglicans (504,392) were outnumbered among Protestant Canadians by only the Methodists (582,362) and Presbyterians (578,785). This position would continue over the next five censuses, with the Anglicans growing but still remaining the third largest Protestant denomination, as the Presbyterians and Methodists fought it out for top place. In 1931, the first census after the formation of the United Church of Canada (resultant from of a merger between the Methodists, Congregationalists, and two-thirds of the Presbyterians), Anglicans became the second largest Protestant denomination, a place which they continued to hold up to the 2011 National Household survey when they numbered 1.6 million. Unlike the Episcopal Church in the United States (which, though less than 1 per cent of the American population, has social prominence due to its wealthy membership), the Anglican Church in Canada is a major presence in the Protestant mainstream, its membership spanning the social spectrum of white Canada.3 Table 1. Anglican, Presbyterian, Methodist, and United Church Census Affiliates.

Year

Anglican/ Church of England in Canada

Presbyterian

Methodist

1871

504,392

578,785

582,362

1881

589,599

681,715

747,919

1891

661,608

770,119

861,666

1901

689,540

847,635

924,750

1911

1,048,002

1,121,394

1,084,695

1921

1,410,632

1,411,794

1,161,165

1931

1,639,075

872,428

2,021,065

1941

1,754,368

830,597

2,208,658

1951

2,060,720

781,747

2,867,271

United Church of Canada

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No Need to Turn Out the Lights Table 1. —continued

Year

Anglican/ Church of England in Canada

Presbyterian

1961

2,409,608

818,558

3,664,008

1971

2,543,180

872,335

3,768,800

1981

2,436,375

812,105

3,758,015

1991

2,188,115

636,295

3,093,120

2001

2,035,500

409,830

2,839,125

2011

1,631,845

472,380

2,007,615

Methodist

United Church of Canada

Source: Canadian Census, 1871–2001; National Household Survey, 2011.

For most of the last 140 years, the number of Anglican census affiliates in Canada has increased, sometimes dramatically. In 1871, the number of Anglicans recorded in the census was slightly over half a million and this number grew consistently until 1911, when over one million Anglicans were recorded. Thus, in just four decades the number of census affiliates doubled. Four decades later in 1951, the number of census affiliates again doubled, standing at two million. In the next two decades, census affiliates grew by just under a quarter, and so by 1971 there were over two and a half million affiliates. Obviously, the population of Canada was growing in this period as well, but Anglicans retained a relatively stable share of the Canadian population. Starting at 14.1 per cent in 1871, before inching up in forty years to reach 14.5 per cent in 1911; over the next forty years the proportion nudged up to 14.7 per cent in 1951, and then nudged down slightly to 13.2 per cent in 1961. The real change, both numerically and as a percentage of the Canadian population comes after this. This tipping point is clearly evident in Figure 1, where Anglicans decreased from the high water mark in 1971 of 2,543,180 (or 11.8 per cent of the total population) to 2,436,375 (10.1 per cent) in 1981; and the decline has continued relentlessly since, down to 2,188,115 (8.1 per cent) in 1991; 2,035,500 (6.9 per cent) in 2001; and, in the 2011 National Household Survey, came in even lower at 1,631,845 (5 per cent).4 Over a forty-year span, the number of Anglican census affiliates has shrunk by about 35 per cent, and that translates to some 22,700 people leaving the church every year. This decline is quite simply dramatic. It is also worth recognizing how recent this decline has been. Moreover, Anglicans have not been alone in facing numerical decline. When we remember that no other Protestant denomination has emerged to topple Anglicans from their second

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place ranking, what we are clearly seeing is broader trends at work that are affecting more than simply this one denomination.

Anglican Denominational Data Denominational statistics help to get at these broader trends and track various forms of religious behaviour and expression, often at key moments in people’s lives, such as baptism and marriage. For the Anglican Church of Canada, we have obtained data starting as early as 1948, but running consistently from 1954 through to the last year for which data is obtainable, namely, 2001. There are some gaps in the data, but the overall picture that does emerge is quite clear. Some of these statistics may offer a more realistic picture than others. For example, although the number of ‘members’ in a denomination often offers an optimistic picture of a denomination’s health, bias towards optimism is usually consistent, and thus comparisons made over time do allow us to see real trends. Therefore, it does not matter whether members remain on the books long after they have ceased participating in a congregation because, although a lagging indicator, declining membership is revealed over time. On the other hand, statistics on other aspects of religious behaviour are more likely to offer an accurate picture. Simply put, some things cannot be fudged, even with statistics. Churches are, for example, unlikely to record baptisms that did not happen. In sum, when we compare statistics that measure multiple aspects of religious involvement—such as membership, baptism, and marriage—a compelling picture emerges that indicates how the Anglican Church in Canada is doing and we need to take that picture seriously.

Membership We begin by looking at the church’s membership. Fortunately, for our purposes the Anglican Church has an inclusive understanding of who counts as a member. In effect, this means that one who considers oneself to be Anglican and attends worship regularly is included. Moreover, one can only be a member of a single parish at any given time, which avoids the possibility of double-counting. The membership of the ACC rose steadily in the immediate post-war period. Starting at just under 1 million members (983,779) in 1948, the earliest year after the war for which we have such figures, membership grew over the next decade and stood at 1,300,029 a decade later in 1958. The rate of growth over this ten year period was very high, a remarkable 32 per cent increase. Membership continued to grow consistently for several years after 1958, reaching 1,361,463 members in 1962. Membership then

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dropped slightly to 1,356,424 in 1963, but rebounded the next year in 1964 to reach a peak of 1,365,313. This was to be, though no one could have predicted this at the time, a record high, one that the Anglican Church would never come close to achieving again. After reaching a peak in 1964, a significantly different trend emerges as membership moved into steady decline. The initial decline was notably steep. By 1968 Anglican membership had declined to 1,173,519—a drop of almost 200,000 members in a three year period. In just three years, almost 15 per cent of the church’s membership had vanished from its rolls. There was a small rebound in 1968, as there would be at various times in later years, but the downward trend after 1964 is notable. By 1978, ACC membership had not only fallen below 1 million members, it had also fallen below its membership level of thirty years previously (1948). There was a brief increase in the late 1980s, but this did not reverse the overall trend. By 2008, the last year the church reported such figures, Anglican membership had fallen to 532,731.5 To put this in perspective, membership was less than three-fifths of what it had been at its peak. Over the course of forty-four years, the church had lost on average 18,900 members a year, and that works out to roughly 1.4 per cent each year of its membership peak reached in 1964. The overall Canadian population had been increasing in this period, with the national population increasing by just over 60 per cent from 1961 through to 2001; that is from 18,236,247 people in 1961 to 29,639,030 in 2001. In effect, Anglican membership shrank at about the same rate that the overall Canadian population was growing.

Sunday School Enrolment Not surprisingly, given the momentum in membership, similar trends are evident in Sunday school enrolment (Figure 2), with strong growth preceding sharp decline. Beginning with an enrolment of 214,532 in 1948, Sunday school enrolment grew to 267,897 by 1955, growing by almost a quarter in just seven years. Enrolment then moved dramatically higher, reaching a peak of 311,859 in 1958, for an increase of one-sixth in just three years. This remains the highest recorded enrolment in Anglican Sunday schools. A dramatic decline the next year (278,309) was followed by a significant increase the following year, when enrolment returned in 1960 to 297,527. These dramatic swings raise some questions, such as the accuracy of the number keeping. At the same time, Sunday school enrolment remained above the 278,000 threshold from 1956 through to 1961. Starting in 1961, however, Sunday school enrolment declined. It is noteworthy that this decline preceded the introduction of the

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Anglican Church’s new curriculum for Sunday schools in 1963. In 1967, enrolment dipped below the level set in 1948, with just 186,680 children on the rolls. By 1970, registration had declined to 133,150, less than half of its peak reached in 1964. Subsequent decline has been steady, although less severe than in the 1960s. By 2001, the last year for which we have recorded data, the membership stood at 44,687. To consider this downward trend another way, Sunday schools were one quarter of the size in 2001 than they had been in 1948, and approximately one sixth the size they had been at their peak in the late 1950s. The arrival of a baby boom had a huge impact on the Anglican Church, as the growth in Sunday schools during the 1950s attested. But then, very suddenly, many children dropped off the rolls. An examination of baptisms and confirmations will help us to understand what occurred and why.

Baptisms and Confirmations Again, what we see with baptisms and confirmations is very similar to the broad trends already observed in overall membership and Sunday school enrolment, but—as will be seen—the timing in when tipping points occurred is critical to understanding the impact of these two trends on overall membership. The enumeration of baptisms in the Anglican Church includes the baptism of both adults and children. For just a few scattered years, we have the number of adults and the number of children being baptized recorded separately. In these years, adult baptisms generally account for 10 per cent of baptisms, with infants obviously accounting for the other 90 per cent. For our purposes here, the key is to recognize that the number of infant baptisms drives the trend in baptisms. Baptisms grew (Figure 3) from 37,557 in 1948 to 43,538 in 1954, with a dip to 40,118 in 1955, and then resuming growth over the next five years to reach a peak of 46,681 in 1960. So over twelve years (1948–1960), the number of baptisms performed in a year had grown by just about a quarter. (Note that children are registered as baptized once, unlike registration for Sunday school, which occurs year after year.) From this point on, baptisms in the Anglican Church have declined. By 1970, baptisms had declined to 29,529, for a decline of over a third. The last recorded year (2001) noted 13,304 baptisms, or just over a quarter of the peak set in 1960. When considering the number of baptisms, the obvious question to ask is how does this relate to the number of births? Put simply, denominations that practice infant baptism are potentially highly responsive to changes in the actual incidence of births, as this will affect the number of children who could be presented for baptism in any given year. It is not possible to derive the number of births specific to Anglican parents from the census returns,

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but the overall picture is clear. The peak year for births in Canada was 1959 (479,275), while the peak year for baptisms in the Anglican Church was, as already noted, the following year. The best way to look at the relationship of the total number of births to Anglican baptisms is not to put these two curves on the same graph, but rather to compare the number of Anglican baptisms to the number of Canadian births, expressed as a percentage (Figure 4). For this tells us what proportion of the population of newborns across the country are being baptized in the Anglican Church. What we see is a decline from a peak of over 10 per cent of Anglican baptisms to overall births in the early 1950s to approximately 9 per cent through to 1958, when it recovered to over 9.5 per cent for the next two years. After 1960 the ratio of Anglican baptisms to overall births enters into sharp decline. Not only did the overall number of baptisms decline, so too did the ratio of baptisms to births. What this means is that the decline of overall baptisms was not simply a reflection of the decline in the number of births. Fewer and fewer of those children who were born in the years after 1960 were brought to an Anglican church for baptism. With only minor variations and the occasional recovery, this trend has continued through to 2001, where it stands at approximately 4 per cent. What is noteworthy is that this is half of the ratio of baptisms (over 8 per cent) that the church experienced well into the early 1970s.

Confirmations The Anglican Church experienced a boom in the 1950s. In fact, during that decade confirmations grew even more dramatically than baptisms (Figure 5). This is a striking development, but to understand its significance, one needs to revisit the growth in overall membership in the 1950s. There was a significant rise in membership after the conclusion of World War II. Thereafter, many men (and not a few women) demobilized and re-entered civilian life and the work force.6 Marriage, moving to the suburbs, and children soon followed. So what the dramatic increase in church membership suggests is that many people sought to reconnect with the church when they settled down to raise their families after the war.7 In this scenario, one can imagine that some adults who had not previously been confirmed would seek confirmation for themselves and baptism for their children. This would account for part of the increase in the number of confirmations. The main driver in the increase, however, was the number of teenagers seeking to be confirmed. In 1948, the Church of England in Canada (as it was then known) witnessed 17,393 confirmations. Confirmations grew steadily—with two exceptions in 1955 and 1959—reaching the peak in 1961 of 35,253. Between 1948

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and 1961 confirmations doubled. Just ten years after the peak, confirmations were down by well over 10,000, with only 21,965 confirmations in 1971, for a drop of just under two-fifths (37.7 per cent). While there are numerous fluctuations in the number of confirmations, the trend has been overwhelmingly downward—with the exception of 1985, when these numbered a few hundred (well within range of expected range of distribution). In 2001, there were only 5,506 confirmations or about one-sixth of those in the 1961 peak. How, then, does one make sense of the trends in confirmation? The best way is to analyse these particular trends in comparison with those of baptism. Children who were baptized as infants and maintained a significant relationship with the church would likely then be confirmed in their early teens, typically some 13 years after their baptism (Figure 6). So taking as an example the first generation born after the war for which we have data (that is, in 1948), we would see those baptized in that year appearing for confirmation in 1961. After that date, using projections based on the growth in baptisms in the 1950s, confirmations should have grown significantly throughout the 1960s and early 1970s, reaching an all-time high around 1973. We have already seen that this did not happen; rather, confirmations fell in terms of absolute numbers. It is also instructive to recognize the extent to which actual confirmations lagged behind the level of confirmations that would have occurred had those baptized thirteen years earlier been confirmed. The gap began as a relatively small one in 1961, with a difference of just 2,300 from the 37,560 confirmations that actually occurred. The gap, however, grew very quickly by 1967, reaching some 16,900—or over three-fifths the number of confirmations actually performed (some 43,540). In 1973, when confirmations should have peaked, the gap between actual and expected confirmations was simply huge—a difference of some 26,500, or 1.3 times the number actually confirmed. To put it another way, over half of those who were baptized in the Anglican Church did not receive confirmation. Although the difference did decrease after that, the proportion between actual and expected confirmations persisted until the last baby boomer was confirmed around 1978. Timing is critical to mapping the trends in confirmation and making sense of their significance. The gap between those who were baptized and should have been confirmed some thirteen years later was slim among the earliest baby boomers, those born before 1950. If confirmation can be seen as a proxy for religious involvement and participation, what we see is that a large portion of the middle-to-late baby boomer generation ceased to be active in the Anglican Church. Moreover, this trend takes root around 1964 (that is, with those born in 1951) and accelerates as we enter into the 1970s (those born between 1957 and the mid-1960s). During the 1980s and after,

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however, in the wake of liturgical experimentation many accepted baptism as sufficient to receive the Eucharist. (The Book of Alternative Services offered the option of ‘sealing’ the newly baptized at the conclusion of the rite.) As a result, many teenagers involved in the life of the church no longer sought confirmation, and so among teens the number of confirmations no longer serves as the proxy for church involvement that it once did.

Baptisms The data on baptisms offers a similar picture. The number of baptisms performed peaked in 1960, but the drop-off accelerated in 1965 with baptisms falling from 40,000 to 35,000. They fell below 30,000 in 1968, and continued to decline even afterward, with a temporary blip in 1969. As for the ratio of baptisms to live births, we observed a high ratio in the 1950s, a decline occurring around 1964, and a descent below the threshold of 8 per cent of live births in 1966. So what are we to make of all this? What needs to be kept in mind is that while these rituals are being performed on children and youth, it is their parents who decide whether they participate, especially in the case of baptism. It is the parents who present their baby for baptism (which is not to deny that social pressure from their own parents was a factor). In the case of confirmation, the process would involve youth’s co-operation, at the very least, as they were expected to have learned the catechism and to answer the catechetical questions contained in the Book of Common Prayer. That all three trends (the gap between actual and expected in confirmations, the number of baptisms and the ratio of baptisms to births) started tipping downward at around the same time (near 1964) indicates that the parents of baby boomers limited their children’s involvement in the church. The most marked of the three trends under discussion (the increasingly large gap between expected and actual confirmations) implies a further development, that is, teenagers themselves were becoming disaffected. Whether one is looking at parents’ or teenagers’ disengagement from the Anglican Church, the year the tipping point occurred—1964—is suggestive: the Beatles and the ‘British Invasion’ of North American had begun earlier that year. Things would never be the same.

Communicants and Contributors The statistical series examined so far have revealed strong growth followed by steep and persistent decline since the 1960s. Other measurements of church

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involvement, however, reveal long-term stability, and foremost among these is the number of Easter communicants. Tracking those who communicated during the Easter season (Figure 7) is a very different indicator from weekly attendance, but it does open a window into participation in the Anglican eucharist. The church did not record this statistic for the entire period under review, but we do have the national numbers of Easter communicants for the years 1955–1983. The number of Easter communicants is significant, as the church traditionally expected its members to receive communion at least three times a year: Easter, Christmas and a third time. There are several features which would correspond to what we have already seen: there was a peak in 1957 (524,621) followed by a decline beginning in 1964 (488,185). So far the picture is a familiar one. At the same time, there are several features that depart from the patterns we have observed so far. One feature is that the rate of decline does not seem to be as dramatic. In fact, between 1964 and 1972 the number of Easter communicants (364,867) seems to have more or less stabilized at slightly over 360,000. Even more interestingly, this number grew consistently after 1978 (370,236), increasing to 428,267 in 1983 (the last year this statistic was recorded)—an increase of one-sixth, or 15 per cent over five years. An even more dramatic picture is presented when we compare those who communicated at Easter to the overall membership of the Anglican Church (Figure 8). Although Anglican membership grew in the late 1950s, and then declined steadily from 1964, the ratio of Easter communicants to membership in the following years demonstrates remarkable stability. After experiencing a decline in the late 1950s, the percentage of Easter communicants to members barely shifts for the following two decades. Even more significantly, in the late 1970s and early 1980s we see an increasing percentage of Easter communicants to overall membership. What we observe here is probably the result of the confluence of two different trends: that more members communicated and that more people overall communicated. The first trend suggests greater commitment among a declining membership. The second trend suggests the existence of a pool of people whom we could label ‘cultural Anglicans’, those who did not attend church weekly or appear on the membership rolls of any Anglican parish, yet who attended church at Eastertide. Unfortunately, we will never know whether or not these trends have persisted because the church no longer collects this data. Another remarkably stable trend is seen among ‘identifiable givers’, that is, regular donors, usually envelope holders (Figure 9). This statistic has not been collected consistently, leading to significant gaps in the record. At the same time, it is interesting to note that, while the trend indicates decline,

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the decline is gradual compared to other statistical trends examined, such as baptisms, confirmation and membership. Indeed, the data suggests that the number of identifiable givers remained remarkably stable in the 1980s, and that observable decline begins much later than the other trends, in the early 1990s. What this means is that, while membership had been in severe decline since the late 1960s, the church’s donation base has remained remarkably stable. Whether this was good or not remains to be seen. On the one hand, this donor base kept the church alive financially. On the other hand, having such a stable donor base may have led to the church to defer difficult choices in the allocation of resources for its ongoing ministry, such as closing parishes or retrenching diocesan expenditures.

Pastoral Care Statistics: Weddings and Funerals The Anglican Church of Canada provides pastoral services to its members and the broader community, the two most obvious of which are weddings and funerals. Despite gaps in the record one can compare the two trends in weddings and funerals performed since the late 1940s (Figure 10). We see that Anglican weddings grew during the late 1960s and early 1970s, when early baby boomers came of age. What is notable is that this did not continue into the late 1970s. By the time members of the largest birth cohort in Canadian history hit their twentieth birthdays in 1978, the number of Anglican marriages had already entered into deep decline. (Anglican marriages hit a peak in 1969 then entered into sharp decline starting in 1974.) The trend line flattens at a couple of intervals (1977–1983 and 1985–1991). What this suggests is that many baby boomers who were baptized in the Anglican Church and had gone to Sunday school opted not to have a church wedding. After 1991, we observe another sharp decline that persisted to the last recorded entry in 2001. Funerals have also declined, but the pattern here was much more stable and gradual. In 1989, the Anglican Church was still doing over 18,000 funerals a year. Numbers dipped the next year, and then recovered in 1991 to 18,316. During 1992–2001, the number has consistently fallen reaching 15,635. We would note that this is an indicator slow to move into decline; but it now certainly has done so.

Conclusion When long-time Anglicans talk about their church in the 1950s and early 1960s they will fondly recall it as a time when their services were packed and their Sunday schools over-flowed with children. This is not a false memory

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induced by a misplaced sense of nostalgia. It really did happen, and the sense of loss that accompanies such memories is also real. In the 1960s, a seismic change erupted into people’s religious habits, as into so much else. During that decade membership and Sunday school enrolment plummeted, as did the observance of many rites of passage, such as baptism and confirmation. Church weddings would enter into sharp decline early in the following decade. In all these changes, baby boomers were prominent. This shift from strong growth in the 1950s to steep decline afterward happened at a time when other churches both at home and abroad went through a remarkably similar shift. If we look at other Canadian churches (the United Church, the Presbyterian Church in Canada and the Salvation Army) we see a similar shift occurring around the same time.8 If we look beyond Canada, we see the same trend in churches in England, the Netherlands, Australia, New Zealand, and in the mainline churches in the United States. The Anglican experience in Canada seems to fit into this broader shift. As Hugh McLeod, Callum Brown and others have identified, the 1960s saw the erosion of long-standing cultural conventions and mores that supported church membership and involvement.9 New values took their place, those that stressed personal autonomy and freedom from authority.10 People discovered, youth foremost among them, that when it came to religion they could exercise choice, and many chose to leave the church. Moreover, many—boomers in particular—chose not to come back either. The trends examined in this study underscore that the decisive shifts occurred in the early 1960s, well before the onset of the turmoil associated with the late 1960s such as the counter culture, feminism, and the gay rights movement. We have also seen that among those who remained with the Anglican Church, there were strong indications of commitment. For example, the large numbers of Easter communicants and church members’ financial support. But in numerical terms, these members represent a remnant, albeit a faithful one when compared to the Anglican Church’s membership at its peak in the mid-1960s. As we have seen, some have made gloomy prognostications about the Anglican Church’s future—or rather its lack of a future—in Canada. The first thing to be said about this is that one should be cautious about making projections. Trends can, and do, change. Indeed no one in 1961 would have predicted the changes that have occurred since that time. To have predicted then that Anglicans would halve their membership before the end of the twentieth century, or that Sunday school enrolment would also collapse, would have been met with disbelief or laughter. Yet,

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that is precisely what happened. If one holds a current loss of 15,500 members yearly as a constant, one could project from its membership in 2008 of 532,731 that there will be no one left to turn out the lights in the last remaining parish church around the year 2042. But rarely do trends continue without change. This is exactly what happened after all in the 1960s. What we saw then was a pattern of exceptional growth followed by an unexpected shift into steep decline. Anglicans are well aware of the challenges facing them, and many are exploring new expressions of church. While it is too early to know how effective these might be, the least one can say is that there is a response to such efforts. Indeed, the purpose of the presentation to the bishops noted above was to get the church thinking about bold alternatives. This will certainly be a time of challenge, but we remain optimistic about the Anglican Church’s future. Now is not the time to be thinking about who will be turning off the lights. There will be Anglicans in Canada a century from now. How many and in what forms their church will take remains to be seen.

Notes 1. Richard Foot, ‘Anglican Ranks on Road to Extinction, Grim Report Finds’, 1 December 2005. Anglican Journal, December 2005, 13 and February 2006, 4–5. See also the column by Ian Hunter, ‘Will the Last Anglican Turn Out the Lights?’ National Post, 13 January 2006, A17. 2. Since 2011, the census is known as the National Household Survey. 3. America’s Changing Religious Landscape: Christians Decline Sharply as Share of the Population (Washington, DC: Pew Research Center, 2015), 21; C. Kirk Hadaway, A Report on Episcopal Churches in the United States (New York: Domestic and Foreign Missionary Society of the Episcopal Church, 2002), 17; and Reginald W. Bibby, Anglitrends: A Profile and Prognosis (Toronto: The Anglican Diocese of Toronto), 9–11. 4. Information for all figures in this essay is available at http://brianclarkestuartmacdonald.wordpress.com. 5. Anglican denominational statistics are derived from: General Synod of the Church of England in Canada, 1949, 1952, 1955; General Synod of the Anglican Church of Canada, Journal of Proceedings, 1959–1969; A Compilation of Diocesan and Parish Statistics, 1969–1979; Anglican Church of Canada Statistical Report, 1980–2001. After 2001, regular statistics have not been readily available, with the one exception noted in the text of membership for 2008. The number of births in Canada is taken from Statistics Canada sources, and related to live births in Canada during this period. 6. Doug Owram, Born at the Right Time: A History of the Baby Boom Generation (Toronto; University of Toronto Press, 1996), 3–18 and 55–69. 7. Owram, Born at the Right Time, 103–10. 8. Brian Clarke and Stuart Macdonald, Leaving Christianity (forthcoming).

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9. Hugh McLeod, The Religious Crisis of the 1960s (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 39–41, 51, 61–2, 65, 107–12, 196–7 and 264–5; Callum G. Brown, The Death of Christian Britain (London and New York: Routledge, 2001), 175–80. 10. Wade Clark Roof and William McKinney, American Mainline Religion: Its Changing Shape and Future (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1987), 60–3.

‘Absurd Hats & Squeaky Boots’: C.S. Lewis Goes to Church PAUL H. FRIESEN

In almost all his writing C. S. Lewis lifted the life of the mind high above biography. He despised the cult of the celebrity even while many were doing their best to turn him into one. It was a hazard not always avoided some fifty years later in the explosion of writing preceding and following the public recollection of his death, 22 November 1963 (a death date shared, famously, with J.F. Kennedy and Aldous Huxley). Their very public funerals put Lewis’ requiem—pathetically—in deep shade. It was not a state of affairs Lewis would have regretted. Yet it is a state of affairs many have attempted to correct. Alister McGrath, the author of the most substantial anniversary book on Lewis, keen to debunk the American Evangelical fascination with the life of Lewis, has, along with his comments on Lewis’ ideas, offered up his own English Evangelical fair share of biographical fascination to the indefatigable Lewis industry.1 Lewis believed in the power of ideas to shape lives and, later in life, he also acknowledged the power of one’s life to shape one’s ideas—for good or ill. But for him biography was meaningless without the life of the mind that integrated a human life, and that trumped everything else that was human. As he aged Lewis was especially keen to connect key theological ideas to stories of spiritual growth—his own ‘everyman’s story’ included. This essay is not about Lewis’ spirituality, but about Lewis and the church, that is, about his ecclesiology carefully defined or his ‘churchmanship’.2 The older Lewis got the more precise (and passionate) he was about the church as the center of all Christian life, his own included –hence the subtitle, ‘C.S. Lewis goes to Church’. The ‘hat’ and the ‘boots’ were at the centre of this preoccupation.

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In spite of the profusion of information about Lewis, too little has been said about Lewis’ experience of church or his thoughts about what happens in the liturgies of the church. It is not for a lack of things he said about the matter. It is more a matter of how the conversation about Lewis has gone. A recent collection of essays, C.S. Lewis and the Church (2011), is of significant help on specific topics. But the essays in it discuss neither the things Lewis said most plainly about his practical ecclesiology (that is about the nature of the worshipping church), nor discuss how he gradually changed his mind about his earlier assessments.3 There is a second recent book by Alister McGrath, a sequel to his C.S. Lewis: A Life (2013), namely The Intellectual World of C.S. Lewis (2014).4 But in regards to our question, it is on very thin evidence that McGrath’s two books claim two things in passing: that Lewis did not have specific ideas about ‘church’, and that Lewis’ ideas about ‘church’ did not really change. In fact the opposite is evident when we turn towards Lewis’ writings themselves: first, his scholarly works on medieval and renaissance literature and literary theory; second, his varied works of fiction; third, his many writings on Christian thought and life; and fourth, his collections of Letters. The latter consist of imaginary letters he published (especially The Screwtape Letters), actual letters he published (Letters to Malcolm proofed by Lewis but published a few months after he died), actual letters published by others after his death (Letters to an American Lady and The Latin Letters of C.S. Lewis: C.S. Lewis and Dom Giovanni Calabria) and of course the three volumes of his Collected Letters (2000–2007).5 On the basis of what Lewis wrote, this essay argues that Lewis had quite specific ideas about the church, and in particular about what in popular parlance is called ‘going to church’. It is contended that Lewis’ relationship to the church developed in reverse to the generally received schema of the evolution of Western Christianity.

The Primitive Church The early Christians of the first few centuries in the Roman Empire knew nothing of ‘autonomous’ or ‘anonymous’ or ‘un-churched Christians’. Rather, they understood themselves to be members of tightly knit spiritual families (we might say ‘local churches’), highly visible and counter-cultural, knit together by bishops and by a distinct lifestyle flowing out of shared, highly sacramental corporate worship in which were imbedded their confessions of faith. The apostolic scriptures and sub-apostolic epistles and liturgies embody this.

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In the third and fourth centuries the edges of that community began to blur into what might be called a broader phenomenon of Christianity, never earlier imagined. It was now understood to be a widening set of more popular religious ideas and practices and more sophisticated philosophical ideas, of which the church was a part and to which more and more ambitious servants, and minor officials and wealthy pagans were attracted and attached, or half-attracted and half-attached. The contrast between St. Augustine’s parents and the entanglements of the Bishop of Hippo himself are an obvious case in point. By the fourth and fifth centuries a Christendom was emerging, in which the society and government of the Roman and Byzantine empires became almost inseparable from the church. This arrangement, through many vicissitudes, lingered on in parts of Europe into Lewis’ days, especially in northern Ireland, the place of his birth. The broad, zig-zag trajectory from Constantine to Justinian to Charlemagne conveys this adequately. This is not to suggest too neat an evolution of history. When it came to the church, contradictions abounded in the first five centuries, and beyond. But there was a definite movement from ‘Church’ to ‘Religion’ to ‘Christendom’ in the Western world over the centuries. Nor is it to suggest that Lewis’ reversal of direction was too neat either; he did not plan his ecclesial evolution, and bits and pieces of his past always mixed with his present. But Lewis displayed a definite reversal, as his life unfolded, a ‘reforming movement’ from Christendom to Christianity, before heading on to what the earliest Christians called ‘the Church’. The point here is not to propose that Lewis was ‘right’ about the ecclesiological trajectory of his life; though it is possible to suggest in passing that his final state of mind should offer hope to the church of his birth, which became the church of his commitment. Rather the goal is simply to reveal the changes in what Lewis seems to have actually thought about ‘going to church’. For this has not yet been thoughtfully addressed. The task of weighing the strength of Lewis’ thoughts is of course quite a separate project. But it will be aided by the simple discoveries that follow.

Lewis and Christendom (1898–1925) The first twenty-seven years of Lewis’ life is a long but straight-forward period by most reckonings, though fraught with the domestic tragedies and interruptions common to many in his generation. He was born in 1898, in Belfast, Ireland, to a father described by Alister McGrath as ‘a pillar of the Protestant establishment’6—not an epithet anyone who knew the elder Lewis

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or his world would deny. Albert Lewis was a barrister, and a noted literary man, and quite comfortable as an ‘Ulsterman’7 (that is, a man for whom the borders of the British Empire, the Protestant areas of Ireland and the local Church of Ireland parish were all one). A Roman Catholic household servant was about as close as the family came to the ‘other religion’. For the most part, empire, Protestant establishment, and state church reinforced each other in the world that C.S. Lewis inherited, questioned, and then rejected. Lewis’ mother, Flora, had a formidable intellect; she was an early female graduate of Methodist College, Belfast, and the Royal University (now Queen’s), Belfast, taking a first in logic, and a second in mathematics. Her father, Lewis’ grandfather, Thomas Hamilton, was the rector of St. Mark’s, Dundela, Belfast, a Church of Ireland parish. Lewis was baptized, and grew up in this parish. In popular terms, his extended family was Irish low-Anglican, so a young C.S. Lewis quite naturally saw Roman Catholic Irish as if they were members of a foreign country and a foreign religion. Lewis’ mother died when he was ten and his brother twelve, but not before Lewis was given his own Bible by his mother, and a Protestant, Churchof-Ireland way of understanding it. Quite apart from biographers’ fascination with an absent mother and distant father are the thoughts that Lewis carried with him. In the wake of the funeral he was sent off to boarding school in England. He almost immediately wrote his father in anguish about some decidedly high or catholic churches in the Church of England to which school boarders were taken. Parroting what was almost certainly the perspective of his grandfather, he said in 1908: ‘I do not like church here at all, because it is so frightfully high-church that it might as well be Roman Catholic’.8 The next year, in a different school, a visit to another Church of England parish turned out to be the same. It is—he wrote to his father with a little more flourish—‘a kind of church abhorred by respectful Irish Protestants… In this abominable place of Romish hypocrites and English liars, the people cross themselves, [and] bow to the Lord’s Table (which they have the vanity to call an altar)’.9 The boy Lewis, in exile in England, was resisting the loss of his imperial identity, his Protestant fortress and the low-church Anglicanism to which it had been tied. That ‘Christendom’ conviction was not lost, incredibly, as Lewis passed through several disheartening boarding schools, and into the hands of the agnostic philosophy tutor with whom he was sent to live by his father to prepare him for university. As recounted in his autobiographical Surprised by Joy, his childhood pieties quickly gave way to the acerbic logic of the tutor he called ‘the Great Knock’.10 Lewis passed through his confirmation at age sixteen, back at St. Mark’s, in Belfast, in torment, as he had by then come to reject all

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things Christian. As he said a few years after, ‘I believe in no religion. There is absolutely no proof for any of them…All religions are merely man’s own invention…it is the recognized scientific account of the growth of religions’.11 Lewis was already on his way to becoming a convinced ‘Ulster Protestant atheist’.12 It was an intellectual frame of mind highlighted by his refusal to receive the sacrament of holy communion, even under the nominal terms of English Christendom until, it would seem, past the age of thirty.13 To say that Lewis became an Ulster Protestant atheist is to say that though deeply marked by anti-Catholicism, he more significantly and increasingly rejected Christendom as a whole—church, Christian thought and Christian society. In the place of the Christendom of his youth, by his own confession, he favoured the irreligious ways of other jaded First World War veterans— licentious university student that he was. He did not hide his drunkenness and womanizing, his mocking of religion and churches of all kinds, his disillusioned poetry, his love of Oxford over Belfast and of his friends over his distant father.14 Christendom was still one in his mind, but he did not much like most of it. He did not darken the doorway of any church except as an architectural tourist of Christendom, and even those excursions excited protestations of unbelief.15 His rejection of the church, as one integral part of a corrupt Christendom now rejected, persisted beyond Lewis’ graduate studies and into his early teaching years. For him the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures, propping up church and nation, embedded similar historically un-rooted myths evident in other world religions. But, remarkably, by 1925 Lewis was having second thoughts about myths in general and Christianity in particular.

Lewis and Christianity (1925–1942) What was it that set Lewis out on a road that led him to a distinct re-conversion to Christianity in 1931? Certainly the pilgrimage began with a professional change of direction. Having studied the greats, and having obtained academic distinction, Lewis had anticipated lecturing in classical literature and philosophy. A tight job market at Oxford and elsewhere forced him to reconsider, study further, and obtain another first (in 1923) in English language and literature, a brand-new (and somewhat ridiculed) programme at Oxford. As he immersed himself in late medieval and renaissance literature, he was obligated to call up again his childhood fascination with mythology, sometimes specifically what he learned to call ‘northernness’, especially the ‘northern’ fairy tales of George McDonald, the eccentric English Presbyterian pastor, which portrayed a kind of sustained human longing for the ethereal, for the beyond.

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In 1925, a mythological catalyst appeared which turned Lewis upside-down. Lewis (who, as one shaken intellectual sparring partner, William Empson, is said to have once put it ‘was the best read man of his generation, who read everything and remembered everything he read’)16 decided to read a book published earlier that year entitled The Everlasting Man. It was a book that for him began to pull Christianity out of its entanglement with Christendom. Its author was the popular controversialist and widely read journalist, G.K. Chesterton, finally received into the Roman Catholic Church that very same year. Chesterton was in fact just one of a group of intellectuals who turned away from the vigorous atheism and agnosticism of 1920s England and, to the astonishment of their contemporaries, were received either into the Roman Catholic Church or the Church of England. It was a group that included Ronald Knox, T.S. Eliot, Evelyn Waugh and Graham Greene. In spite of this, it was no secret Lewis despised Eliot till almost the end (but happily not the very end) of his life. His attitude towards the others is unclear.17 In any case, it was the journalistic intellectual, Chesterton, who made the impact on Lewis. Although there is no record of Chesterton and Lewis ever meeting, thirty of Chesterton’s books have been discovered in Lewis’ personal library, with Lewis’ marginal notes in each one.18 As Rowan Williams put it in his book The Lion’s World, ‘Lewis’ debt to Chesterton was a large one’.19 The Everlasting Man was a remarkable book, in part because it was written against the rapid growth, in large parts of the intellectual world, of ideas loosely grouped under the open-ended, but emphatic, notion of human progress (more narrowly known as Social Darwinism or ‘the scientific society’). It was something to be achieved (in extreme, popular forms) through eugenics and selective human breeding via educational programmes to be delivered by American and European states, and soon after, of course, actually attempted in Germany and advocated elsewhere.20 Against this spectre Chesterton set an opposing scheme of human history. In it, the universal mythological world revealed that the longings and desires of humanity across the ages were subsumed and fulfilled in a true myth: the story of the birth, death, and resurrection of Christ. Human progress missed the point for Chesterton. Even philosophy, in the end, missed the point. After a sweeping treatment of human mythologies from the time of the earliest cave paintings, Chesterton put it this way: [The life of Jesus] was a fulfillment of the myths rather than the philosophies… No two things could be more different than the death of Socrates and the death

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of Christ…[In fact] the ideal philosopher merely vanished. When Jesus was brought before the judgement-seat of Pontius Pilate, he did not vanish. [This] was the crisis and the goal.21

Lewis pondered The Everlasting Man in the late 1920s as he entered into what he and his good friend and fellow agnostic pilgrim, Owen Barfield, called ‘the Great War’. In this furious exchange of letters on mythology, Lewis tried to peg down what mythology, the key to human understanding, was and what it was not. He said: A myth…is a story introducing supernatural personages or things…determined by the supposedly inimitable (i.e. ‘un-reproducible’) relations of personages or things: possessing unity; and not, save accidentally, connected with any given place or time.22

That was a myth; how it related to Christianity was the riddle. But in September 1931, the Chestertonian penny dropped. After a late night conversation with a friendly colleague six years his senior, J.R.R. Tolkien, the Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford, Lewis himself concluded that the story of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection, the story of Christ, was ‘simply a true myth: a myth working on us in the same way as the others, but with this tremendous difference that it truly happened’,23 having actually unfolded in time and space.24 Within weeks he began attending his parish church and his college chapel as ‘a Christian’; at Christmas he received holy communion. No one was more shocked than his brother Warnie, who had gone through a different sort of conversion to the same faith, at the same time, half-way around the world in Hong Kong. At this point, it is important to say that what Lewis understood by Christianity, in his second stage of churchmanship, was not the church, but a coherent set of thoughts that flowed out of a true mythology and that it led to a certain kind of life that included church attendance. This is evident in his first post-conversion book entitled The Pilgrim’s Regress (1933), a highly allegorical tale of his intellectual adventures in pursuit of his mythological northern longing, leading to his embrace of the one he called ‘Mother Kirk’. While some thought this meant that he had joined Chesterton in the Roman Catholic communion, Lewis replied in a preface to a subsequent edition: ‘This book is concerned solely with Christianity as against unbelief. ‘Denominational’ questions do not come in.’25 The idea of Christianity as a system of thought rather than as the church looms large in Lewis’ first scholarly monograph The Allegory of Love (1936). In it Lewis brings his newly Christian thought structure into dialogue with his evaluation of medieval literature.

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PAUL H. FRIESEN [There are] conditions necessary for any sacrament…The first is pre-existing similitude between the material element and the spiritual reality…Water uses an image of the grace of the Holy Ghost even before the sacrament of baptism was ordained.26

Though Lewis seemed on the verge of entering into a sacramental theology of the church, the church was still on the periphery of his field of vision. This arms-length relationship with the church is also seen in his 1942–44 BBC war-time ‘Broadcast Talks’ published a decade later as Mere Christianity. In his famed allegorical preface, he speaks of ‘mere Christianity’ as ‘a hall out of which doors open into several rooms…[where] there are fires and chairs and meals’—denominational churches about which we should ask ‘are [its] doctrines true?’27 That is to say, forms of Christianity were best defined by doctrines. But his mind had already begun to change on the matter.

Lewis and the Church (1942–1963) It is a strange fact that while Lewis is known, on the one hand, for apologetics in his Mere Christianity and, on the other hand, for his works of imagination, he is seldom noticed for the connection he draws between the imagination and his understanding of the church. The truth is that in the early 1940s he was already losing interest in the short-lived revival of his undergraduate philosophy career (pressed into the service of publicly defending his newly reclaimed faith). Lewis instead began to turn—both in his scholarly and popular writing—to explorations of the religious imagination. It is precisely at this point that Lewis simultaneously turned to explore the insides of the church to which he had somewhat gingerly joined himself as an adherent to Christianity, the religion. It has been pointed out that Lewis has no room for identifiable representations of the church in his novels. But as Rowan Williams has argued, ‘[Yes] there is no “church” in Narnia, no religion even…the kingdom of Narnia is itself the “Church”’.28 Williams is of course right about the ‘missing Church’, and likely right about the kingdom of Narnia. That aside, when it comes to his other genres and other works of imagination, Lewis’ outlines of the church appear through the mist. Lewis’ rapidly developing understanding of church in this last long period of his ecclesiological formation may be broken into three parts. First, there is the narrower matter of his publicly identifiable churchmanship, his practical ecclesial location. In addition, there are two deeper matters related to it: there is Lewis’ understanding of the body of Christ as the church.

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Finally, there is the matter of the body of Christ as sacrament. In none of these is Lewis unique. But as a bundle of convictions held together by one mid-century Oxford don, a recovering ‘Ulster Protestant atheist’, a layman well known for his popular Christian writings, his frame of mind is intriguing. First, there is the matter of Lewis’ most evident churchmanship. Churchmanship was a widely and thoroughly contested issue within the Church of England in which his ideas of the church blossomed, especially in an environment that persistently nourished pitched battles between highand low-Anglicans, and between Anglicans and others. In fact, Lewis’ own churchmanship has been subjected, in fits and starts, to several posthumous reclamation projects. This is not surprising. For his extant letters reveal sustained campaigns, especially by various Roman Catholic correspondents, in aid of Lewis’ departure from the Church of England and reception by Rome, which he consistently brushed away, in part, because of his disbelief in the concept of the papacy.29 At one level, the confusion of those communions that courted Lewis can be understood. Lewis hobnobbed with Jesuits and counted Roman Catholic lay people and priests amongst his closest friends. He was full of praise for the noted Anglo-Papist, Dom Gregory Dix, and said that though he had not read The Shape of the Liturgy, those whose judgement he trusted thought highly of Dix’s scholarship.30 When it came to the Eastern Church, Lewis was fulsome in his praise. Toward the end of his life, after a trip to Greece, he was to say, ‘Greek priests impress one very favourably at sight, much more than most Protestant or R.C. clergy’.31 Lewis’ love of platonic mentalities, for instance, has moved no less than Kallistos Ware to nominate Lewis an ‘anonymous Orthodox’.32 Not only that, Lewis adored the freedom of the laity in its interplay with Orthodox liturgies. In a remarkable passage, just before his death, he recalled an experience that reveals something significant: What pleased me most about a Greek Orthodox mass I once attended was that there seemed to be no prescribed behaviour for the congregation. Some stood, some knelt, some sat, some walked; one almost crawled about the floor like a caterpillar. And the beauty of it was that nobody took the slightest notice of what anyone else was doing. I wish Anglicans would do that. One meets people who are perturbed because someone in the next pew does, or does not cross himself.33

This was an old theme for Lewis, in fact. As he somewhat mischievously had the Senior Devil put it to his apprentice: Given what that ‘pestilent [Apostle] Paul’ used to teach [about the weaker brother]…You would expect to find the ‘low’ churchman genuflecting and

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PAUL H. FRIESEN crossing himself lest the weak conscience of his ‘high’ brother should be moved to irreverence.34

Lewis admitted his own difficulty in most forms of liturgical expression, even those he favoured, ‘partly because, not having good dancing masters, we don’t know how to bow gracefully… and we now carry over this boorishness into spiritual matters’.35 There is of course something of the iconoclast (and sometimes the satirist) that inevitably came out in Lewis’ offhand comments during disputes about what he considered secondary—and in many ways, he considered ‘denomination’ or ‘public churchmanship’ secondary. But in the end, Lewis’ intellect lodged him firmly within Anglicanism, be it in a way that could not fully please anyone committed to the church party system or to the defence of any current church party. So it is puzzling that Alister McGrath pictures Lewis’ churchmanship as enduringly solitary and perfunctory, and uncultivated beyond a bland ecumenical interpretation of ‘denominationalism’. It is also puzzling that McGrath asserts that Lewis knew nothing of the concept of ‘Anglicanism’, only of instinctively adhering to the state church.36 It is more puzzling yet that McGrath has recently added that ‘[Lewis] fits well into a more “low church” mentality’.37 Concerning Lewis’ Anglicanism, there cannot really be much debate. Contrary to McGrath’s opinion, Lewis spoke openly on a number of occasions about his love for Anglicanism, and not just when swatting aside invitations to be received into other communions. It is true that on one occasion Lewis said ‘in one sense there’s no such thing as Anglicanism’; yet he said in the same breath, ‘Hooker (Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity) is to me the great formulation of Anglicanism’.38 For Lewis the Book of Common Prayer (BCP) was that on which Anglicanism hung. Although he claimed to have nothing to say about ‘liturgiology’, he was quite bold in an extended passage about the authority of the BCP. He began in humility: ‘Our business as laymen is to take what we are given and make the best of it’. He proceeded to say, in other words, that he liked his BCP straight up. While Lewis’ love of the diverse liturgical actions of the laity was generous, his preference was to find the words of worship identical in every Anglican liturgy in every place—without ‘incessant brightenings, lightenings, lengthenings, abridgements, simplifications and complications of the service’. Clearly both Evangelical and Anglo-Catholic liturgies were in his sights. He admitted in the same passage that vernacular liturgy demanded revision over time in order to remain truly vernacular, though he confessed to being a foot-dragger in this regard. He pleaded in the end for respect for Cranmer’s artistry when anything new

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was projected, and concluded: ‘our liturgy [the BCP] is one of the very few remaining elements of unity in our hideously divided Church’.39 When it comes to Lewis’ resting place within Anglicanism, McGrath’s assessments run counter to fairly obvious evidence—both in regard to facts hard to set aside and words hard to misread. In his latter years as a churchman, Lewis prepared for holy communion by weekly visits to his confessor in Oxford, an Anglo-Catholic monk of the revived monastic Anglican order known as the Cowley Fathers.40 Beyond auricular confession Lewis’ well-documented churchmanship also included, ‘meatless Fridays…belief in the Real Presence and the taking of Holy Communion frequently…apostolic succession’ and more.41 This extended to a qualified appreciation of the Angelus.42 His churchmanship included a hearty appreciation of ‘prayers with the dead’ and bidding the prayers of the departed.43 It may have been a cheerful aside, but when in late career he moved from Magdalen College, Oxford, to Magdalene College, Cambridge, he quipped, ‘I shall not change my heavenly patroness’.44 He did not sound anything like an Anglican low-churchman of any era. Nor did he when he commented, early in this third period of his faith, ‘The R.C.s are flourishing and growing, and in the C. of E. the “high” churches are fuller than the “low”’. He added, ‘[N]ot that popularity is a truth-test’. Yet the implication was clearly that he was not attracted to the ‘low’.45 It is true that Lewis steadfastly refused to get involved in debates about liturgical and devotional practices or internecine politics between low- and high-church parties. However this did not silence Lewis on what he understood to be the essential character of the church: To a layman, it seems obvious that what unites the Evangelical and the AngloCatholic against the Liberal or “Modernist” is something very clear and momentous, namely that [the former] are thoroughgoing supernaturalists…[so] may I suggest “Deep Church”[?]46

This is to say something similar, but also something more significant than what Walter Hooper confronted a few months before Lewis’ death. Hooper, keen to peg the very sickly and weary old man, was stonewalled on the lowversus-high question with the comment, ‘We must never discuss that’.47 Yet if Lewis regarded partisan lines with either disinterest, or on occasion, with disgust—and if he muttered about how both Evangelicals and AngloCatholics sometimes handled his beloved BCP, he was keen to discuss his perspective on the nature of the church. The most important aspects of this related to his understanding of the body of Christ both as the identity of the church, and as the sacrament of holy communion offered by the church.

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As far as the body of Christ is concerned, that is, the body of Christ in relation to the society of the church, McGrath says that he finds it neatly pictured in 1952: It is clear that Lewis’ conception of the Christian faith was rather individualist, even solitary…there was little here about the church, the community of faith.48

This misses the mature Lewis altogether. Lewis was by his own happy confession anything but a theologian or a biblical scholar. But he read the Bible and theology energetically, gleaning insights that he framed imaginatively and often mythologically. It is obvious Lewis has absorbed his notions of the church (the body of Christ) from St. Paul’s Epistles, especially of his dictum, ‘For there is neither Jew nor Greek…slave nor free…male nor female; for you are all one in Christ’.49 It is in The Screwtape Letters (1942) that Lewis first pulls together his theological imagination with his growing appreciation for the church as a living body of the faithful—as opposed to ‘churches’ as a derivative piece of a system of Christian philosophy, or even theology. It was an avenue that he would pursue constantly and increasingly till his death. The imaginary conceit (or device) of The Screwtape Letters is of stolen correspondence between a senior and an apprentice devil, bent on turning a human convert away from the Christian faith, at whose centre was the church. So it is that the devil’s work, said Lewis, was to make the young convert’s ‘mind flit between “the body of Christ”…[on the one hand], [and on the other hand] a selection of neighbours he has hitherto avoided…the actual faces in the next pew’.50 As the senior devil put it to his junior about Sunday morning parish worship: ‘If the patient knows that the woman with the absurd hat is a fanatical bridge player or the man with squeaky boots [is] a miser…then your task is so much the easier’.51 Hence the constant temptation to faulty ecclesiology to which Lewis alerts his readers. In fact the church really has nothing to do with these matters of class or race or taste, Lewis has the tempter admit. Nor, said Lewis’ insightful but cynical devil, should the church ‘be [feared] because of the excellent arguments it can produce’.52 In fact, the chief aspiration of the church, in which it often fails, is to simply be the body of Christ. Lewis’ Screwtape licks his chops as he says, ‘subordinate factions within [the church] have often produced admirable [demonic] results, from the parties of Paul and Apollos in Corinth down to the high and low parties in the Church of England’.53 In fact, adds Screwtape, the real fun [for devils] is working up hatred between those who say ‘mass’ and those who say ‘holy communion’ when neither party could possibly state the difference between, say, [Richard] Hooker’s doctrine and Thomas Aquinas.54

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In fact, concludes Screwtape, If a man can’t be cured of churchgoing, the next best thing is to send him all over the neighbourhood looking for the church that ‘suits’ him until he becomes a connoisseur of churches.55

To put it in other terms, as Lewis did seven years later in his essay entitled, ‘Membership’ (1949), The Christian is called not to individualism but to membership in the mystical body…those who are members of one another become as diverse as the hand and the ear…If you subtract one member you have not simply reduced the [church] family in number you have inflicted an injury on its [whole] structure.56

Lewis did find it difficult at times to see college chapel life in terms of the body of Christ; sometimes he fled to a local Oxford parish for worship to get beyond it. This was discovered by the somewhat startled Fr. John Hibbitts of Halifax. While working on his doctoral dissertation, Hibbitts was priestin-charge of that parish and ended up administering holy communion and preaching to Lewis and the few others at mid-week services.57 Yet Lewis never let go of this conviction about the necessary, fundamental inclusiveness of the body of Christ; it comes up repeatedly in his writings and especially in his correspondence. This is not to say that Lewis had no further thoughts about the church as the body of Christ. But he was not very interested in much beyond the church as the faithful gathered, as contradictory and shabby as any assembly might be. He was not, to be forthright, even much interested in liturgy in general or in organs and hymns in particular—the last he thought mostly second rate and a trial to sing.58 The scholar of medieval and renaissance literature moaned and groaned at times. Even Thomas Cranmer’s hand in the BCP was, in Lewis’ opinion, limited. Since everything Cranmer wrote went through a committee, Lewis said: ‘the wonder is that what remains is even so lively as it is’.59 Lewis corresponded cheerfully far beyond the fringes of Anglicanism: with Roman Catholics, Baptists, Seventh-Day Adventists and others as fellow Christians in sister churches around the world. His definition of the body of Christ as the church was writ larger on some occasions than on others. But Lewis only grew in his devotion to the body of Christ in the Anglican eucharist. Lewis in fact says almost nothing about baptism, the first sacrament, the door into the church in orthodox ecclesiology. Following his adult re-conversion, he never seemed to attempt to reclaim its significance. But about holy communion he was at times sophisticated and at other times

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surprisingly blunt. In dialogue with literary criticism, he would call it ‘“a mystical union”…not symbolical but sacramental’. He pursued this line in some depth at times, and when in depth always in literary terms.60 At other times he simply said: The command, after all, was Take, eat; not Take, understand. Particularly, I hope I need not be tormented by the question ‘What is this?—this wafer, this sip of wine’.61

He would also call it the ‘old, familiar act of eating and drinking’ and say, ‘Here a hand from a hidden country touches not only my soul but my body… Here is big medicine and strong magic.’62 Lewis attempted to mediate between his two instincts in a brief and rare meditation on the sacramental theology of the Middle Ages and the Reformation. He said he could not imagine what the disciples thought when Jesus said the bread and wine were his body and blood—and that he could not make sense of Aristotle’s accidents/substance construction to interpret it. He added: I get no better with those who tell me that elements are mere bread and mere wine, used symbolically to remind me of the death of Christ…yet I find no difficulty in believing that the veil between two worlds, nowhere else (for me) so opaque to the intellect, is nowhere else so thin and permeable to divine operation.63

Beyond this Lewis did not delve into sacramental theology; yet to say that is not to say he had no pronounced sacramental ideas. The link between the church as the body of Christ and the bread and wine of the eucharist is first broached three years before the publication of Mere Christianity in Lewis’ essay, ‘The Weight of Glory’ (1949). ‘Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself’, he says, ‘your neighbour is the holiest object present to your senses’.64 Almost fifteen years later, in Letters to Malcolm, the last of his books that he proofed for publication while he was dying, Lewis made a final admission that also tied the two together. He says: Actually my ideas about the sacrament [of the eucharist] would probably be called ‘magical’ by a good many modern theologians. Surely the more fully one believes that a strictly supernatural event takes place, the less one can attach any great importance to the dress, gesture, and position of the priest…You are a bigot. Broaden your mind, Malcolm, broaden your mind! It takes all sorts to make a world; or a church. If grace perfects nature it must expand all our natures into the full richness of the diversity which God intended when he made them, and heaven will display more variety then hell.65

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If not all members of the body of Christ could understand the sacrament in the same way, they should at least accept its varying significance for others for whom it was the center of Christian worship, and which tied them together in the body of Christ, the church. To Fr Calabria in Italy, whose invitation to become a Roman Catholic he firmly declined, Lewis still wrote: Tomorrow we shall celebrate the glorious resurrection of Christ. I shall be remembering you in Holy Communion. Away with tears and fears and troubles! United in wedlock with the eternal Godhead ourselves, our nature ascends into the Heaven of Heavens.’66

However for Lewis the act of holy communion was not fundamentally aesthetic, or emotional. He cautioned a young convert: Don’t count on any remarkable sensations, either at this or our first (or fifty-first) Communion. God gives these or not as he pleases…The intention, the obedience is what matters.67

To Lewis, one of his ‘golden communions’ was in a ‘Nissen hut’ with a ‘cockney choir’. He remarked: ‘A tin mug for a chalice, if there was a good reason for it, would not distress me in the least’.68 So to Lewis the dominical origin of the sacrament was fundamental, and so was the dominical ecclesiology in which it rested. As he wrote to a frequent correspondent, the two could not be separated: The only rite we know to have been instituted by our Lord in the Holy Communion…The New Testament does not envisage solitary religion…The Church is not a human society of people united by their natural affinities but the Body of Christ…[Christ] rejoices in their differences.69

Conclusion Lewis’ ecclesiology, his churchmanship at the end of his earthly pilgrimage, from Christendom and through Christianity, was straightforward. Divine grace could only truly be received through the body and blood of Christ in the eucharist. It could only be truly received within the body of Christ, the messy and contradictory collection of worshippers called the church. Lewis found these both in the words and practice of the BCP. Everything else took a secondary or tertiary position for him. He left unanswered the question of the value of the religious beliefs and practices of those outside his church, whom he embraced as members of the church universal.

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If he had been asked, at the end of his life, why he thought the church (and ‘going to church’) was so important, one suspects Lewis would simply point out that in the Apostles’ Creed the church, that is, the body of Christ which offers the body of Christ, is the very next confession following its confession of God as Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Notes 1. Alister McGrath, C.S. Lewis—A Life: Eccentric Genius, Reluctant Prophet (Carol Stream, IL: Tyndale, 2013). 2. An earlier version of this essay was delivered as: ‘The Woman with the Absurd Hat & the Man with the Squeaky Boots: C.S. Lewis Goes to Church’ at Both Sides of the Wardrobe: C.S. Lewis, Theological Imagination, and Everyday Discipleship: A Symposium, convened by Robert Fennel at the Atlantic School of Theology, Halifax, 23 November 2013. 3. Judith and B.N. Wolfe, eds, C.S. Lewis and the Church: Essays in Honour of Walter Hooper (London: T&T Clark, 2011). 4. Alister McGrath, The Intellectual World of C.S. Lewis (Chichester: John Willey & Sons, 2014). 5. C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters (Glasgow: Collins, 1942); C.S. Lewis, Letters to Malcolm (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1964); Clyde S. Kilby, ed., Letters to an American Lady (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1967); The Latin Letters of C.S. Lewis: Martin Moynihan, trans., C.S. Lewis and Dom Giovanni Calabria (South Bend, IN.: St. Augustine’s Press, 1998); Walter Hooper, ed., C.S. Lewis: Collected Letters, 3 vols (London: Harper Collins, 2003–2007). The three massive volumes edited by Walter Hooper are: Collected Letters Vol. I: Family Letters 1905–1931 (London: Harper Collins, 2000); Collected Letters Vol. II: Books, Broadcasts, and War 1931–1949 (London: Harper Collins, 2004); Vol. III: Narnia, Cambridge, and Joy 1950–1963 (London: Harper Collins, 2007). 6. McGrath, C.S. Lewis—A Life, 16. 7. Ibid. 10. 8. Letters I, 7. 9. Letters I, 8. 10. C.S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1955), 127–41. 11. To Arthur Greeves, his childhood friend, 12 October 1916, in Letters I, 230–1. 12. This phrase I owe to McGrath, C.S. Lewis—A Life, 107. 13. He first received the sacrament on Christmas 1931 in his parish church, Holy Trinity, Headington. See his letter to his brother Warnie, 25 December 1931, in Letters II, 30; and McGrath, C.S. Lewis—A Life, 156–7. 14. McGrath, C.S. Lewis—A Life, 54ff. 15. In a letter of 8 December 1920 to his father, he called King’s College Chapel ‘beautiful beyond hope or belief’ but commented that ‘Puritan’ Cambridge ‘[had] not so much Church and State in its veins as we’. To his brother a few months later (10 May 1921), he was free of the need to appear pious and noted with scorn the Church of

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18.

19. 20.

21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

30. 31. 32.

33. 34.

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England priest who had ‘lost his faith but kept his living’, projecting the cynicism of one who had lost his own childhood faith, but went through the required religious motions of university life. See Letters I, 541, 547. See ‘Introduction’, in James T. Como, ed., C. S. Lewis at the Breakfast Table, and Other Reminiscences (London: Collins, 1980), xxiii. ‘The people I mean are led by…T.S. Eliot on [our side]…God forgive me if I do them wrong, but there are some of this set who seem to me to make of the Christian faith itself one more of their high brow fads.’ To Bede Griffiths, 4 April 1934, in Letters II, 134. Dale Alquist, ‘Chesterton and Lewis Side by Side’, St. Austin Review (May/June 2013), 4–5. Alquist also notes that Lewis wrote a defence of Chesterton ten years after Chesterton’s death, defending Chesterton against charges of being both too popular and too dated. Rowan Williams, The Lion’s World: A Journey to the Heart of Narnia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 51. Lewis’ growing contempt for this form of hypothesized society is eventually seen in the violent colours of the last dystopic volume of his science-fiction trilogy That Hideous Strength: A Modern Fairy-Tale for Grown-ups (London: J. Lane, Bodley Head, 1949). G. K. Chesterton, The Everlasting Man (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2008), 207–8. In series I, letter 4, c. 1927–28, in Letters III, 1619. To Arthur Greeves, 18 October 1931, in Letters I, 977. Lewis finally accepted the regretful conclusion of ‘the hardest boiled of all the atheists I ever knew’, having confronted evidence on the historicity of the Gospels. He recalls his response just after reading The Everlasting Man: ‘Rum thing…All that stuff of Frazer’s [Golden Bough] about the Dying God. Rum thing. It almost looks as if it had really happened once’. Surprised by Joy, 211. C.S. Lewis, The Pilgrim’s Regress: An Allegorical Apology for Christianity, Reason and Romanticism (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1950), 14. C.S. Lewis, The Allegory of Love: A Study in Medieval Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1936), 46. C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity (New York: Harper Collins, 1980), xv–xvi. Williams, The Lion’s World, 19–20. See, for instance, his tart reply on 25 November 1947 to a priest for whom he had, in fact, much affection: ‘When you write that the Pope is “the point of meeting” you almost commit what the logicians call…begging the question. For we disagree about nothing more that the authority of the Pope’. Latin Letters, 39–40. To his perpetual correspondent, a certain Mrs. van Deusen, 18 November 1956, in Letters III, 899. That Lewis had not actually read Dix is evident in Lewis’ simultaneous and unabashed love of the BCP. To Chad Walsh, 23 May 1960, in Letters III, 1154. Ware notes Lewis’ preoccupation with ‘the inexhaustible mystery of the divine’, the comprehension of the Trinity, the world being ‘a very thin place’, and humans becoming ‘partakers in the divine nature’. See ‘C.S. Lewis, an “Anonymous Orthodox”?’ in C.S. Lewis and the Church, 141–52. Letters to Malcolm, 19. Screwtape Letters, 84–5.

230

PAUL H. FRIESEN

35. Lewis further explained: ‘People like us, all who come from a Western, decayed-Protestant, liberal, commercial background have a lot of lee-way to make up’. To Mrs. van Deusen, 20 May 1954, in Letters III, 477. 36. McGrath writes: ‘Following his conversion, Lewis chose to self-identify with the Church of England—not with “Anglicanism” as a specific ecclesiology, but with the general ethos of the English national church’. Intellectual World, 170. He also remarks: ‘A close reading of Lewis’ works suggest that his commitment to the Church of England might ultimately reflect its identity as the established church of the English people rather than its theological beliefs or liturgical practices’. Intellectual World, 154. This is the opposite of what Lewis asserted elsewhere when preparing for one of his return trips home to Belfast: ‘Almost all the crimes which Christians have perpetuated against each other arise from this, that religion is confused with politics’. To Dom Giovanni Calabria, 10 August 1953, in Latin Letters, 85. 37. McGrath, Intellectual World, 155. 38. Both remarks appear in a letter to an unidentified inquirer, 8 March 1945, in Letters III, 647. 39. Letters to Malcolm, 11–18. Lewis did waver at times on the limits of the artistry. 40. This was a significant part of Lewis’ church life. He wrote: ‘I feel very much an orphan because my aged confessor and most loving father in Christ has just died’. To Dom Giovanni Calabria, 14 April 1952, Latin Letters, 69. 41. James Como, ‘C.S. Lewis’ Quantum Church: An Uneasy Meditation’, in C.S. Lewis and the Church, 94. 42. ‘My own view would be that to salute any saint (or angel) cannot be wrong any more than taking off one’s hat to a friend’. To Mrs. van Deusen, 26 June 1952, in Letters III, 209. His qualification on the use of the ‘Hail Mary’ had to do with his observation that ‘some’ Roman Catholics greeted her as a deity. On the grounds of implied universal obligation, he objected to any Anglican canonizations of saints on the Roman Catholic model, in a letter to the editor of the Church Times, October 1952. 43. ‘If you ask for the prayers of the living, why should you not ask for the prayers of the dead…[in any case] we are agreed about praying with them’. Letters to Malcolm, 26–7. 44. In a letter to Dom Calabria, 5 December 1954, sadly the day after Calabria’s death, Latin Letters, 95. He did admit to the change of the spelling of her name. 45. To the formerly pious Plymouth Brethren, Arthur Greeves, who was contemplating Unitarianism, 11 December 1944, in Letters III, 1554. 46. To the editor of the Church Times, 8 February 1952, in Letters III, 164. 47. C.S. Lewis, Christian Reflections, Walter Hooper, ed. (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1967), xi. 48. McGrath, C.S. Lewis—A Life, 211. Although McGrath is fascinated with the actual date of Lewis’ reconversion, his confusion here seems to stem from McGrath not accounting for the delay in the publication of Lewis’ war-time ‘Broadcast Talks’ as Mere Christianity (1952) after the war, and from his lack of interest in Lewis’ ecclesiology as expressed in various other writings in this period. 49. Galatians 3:28 RSV (Oxford, 1977). 50. Screwtape Letters with Screwtape Proposes a Toast (New York: Harper-Collins, 2001), 6. 51. Ibid. 8. 52. Ibid. 34.

‘Absurd Hats & Squeaky Boots’ 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69.

231

Ibid. 33. Ibid. 84. Ibid. 81. The Weight of Glory & Other Addresses (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1975), 33–6. Noted in a conversation between the author and Fr. Hibbitts, while the writer was priest-in-charge of King’s College Chapel, Halifax, 1999–2005. Surprised by Joy, 220–1. English Literature in the Sixteenth Century Excluding Drama (Oxford: Clarendon, 1954), 157. ‘Transposition’, in Weight of Glory, 91–102. Letters to Malcolm, 136. Ibid. 133. Ibid. 132–4. Weight of Glory, 33–46. Letters to Malcolm, 19. In a letter, 27 March 1948, in Latin Letters, 45. To Rhona Bodle, 9 November 1949, in Letters II, 994. Letters to Malcolm, 131. To Mrs. van Deusen, 7 December 1950, in Letters III, 68.

Contributors

Alan Acheson has a Ph.D. from Queen’s University, Belfast. His publications include A History of the Church of Ireland 1691–2001 (2nd ed. 2002), and Bishop John Jebb and the Nineteenth-Century Anglican Renaissance (2013). He lives in Cobourg, Ontario. Andrew Adkins completed a Ph.D. for the Toronto School of Theology in 2014 entitled, For the Love of Right Angles: Bedan Archetypes of Ethnicity as a Mystical Map of the Human Condition Integrated in the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church. He is an independent scholar living in Toronto, and a former lecturer in history, philosophy, theology and English at Maranatha University College in Accra, Ghana. Mwita Akiri received his Ph.D. from the University of Edinburgh in 1999 for his work on The Growth of Christianity in Ugogo and Ukaguru (Central Tanzania): A Socio-Historical Analysis of the Role of Indigenous Agents 1876– 1933. He is Bishop of Tarime in the Anglican Church of Tanzania. He is Research Professor of Mission and African History at Wycliffe College. His main academic interest is in the area of the historical interaction of the ‘West’ with African religious, social and cultural heritage. Mwita has contributed a number of online biographical articles for the Dictionary of African Christian Biography. Brian Clarke, Ph.D., teaches church history at Emmanuel College, Toronto School of Theology. With Stuart Macdonald he has been working on a project exploring changes within Christianity in Canada, using the census, data from churches, and attendance data. Paul H. Friesen, Ph.D., is Rector, St. Paul’s Church, Halifax, and adjunct lecturer in Anglican Theology, Atlantic School of Theology, Halifax, Nova Scotia. Gary W. Graber, Th.D., completed a doctoral dissertation for the Toronto School of Theology in 2007 for his work entitled, Worship,

234

CONTRIBUTORS

Ecclesiastical Discipline, and the Establishment in the Church of England, 1904–1929. He is the author of Ritual Legislation in the Victorian Church of England: Antecedents and Passage of the Public Worship Regulation Act, 1874 (1993). He is an adjunct faculty member of Wycliffe College. Eric Griffin, Th.D., is an Anglican priest in the Diocese of Niagara, and an instructor at the Renison Institute of Ministry, University of Waterloo, Canada. He has edited a new edition of Daniel Brevint, The Christian Sacrament and Sacrifice (2000). Stuart Macdonald, Ph.D., teaches at the Toronto School of Theology as Professor of Church and Society at Knox College. With Brian Clarke he has been working on a project exploring changes within Christianity in Canada, using the census, data from churches, and attendance data. David Neelands, Th.D., is Dean of Divinity, Trinity College, University of Toronto, where he teaches the history and theology of Anglicanism. He is particularly interested in the theology of Richard Hooker and in the history of early Christian theology, especially St. Augustine. Sean A. Otto, Ph.D., completed a doctoral dissertation entitled Pastoralia in John Wyclif’s Sermones: Controversial Preaching in Later Medieval England in 2013 for the Toronto School of Theology. He is Assistant Registrar at Wycliffe College, Toronto. Thomas P. Power, Ph.D., is Adjunct Professor of Church History, Wycliffe College. His most recent publication is Ministers and Mines: Religious Conflict in an Irish Mining Community, 1847–1858 (2014). Ephraim Radner, Ph.D., is Professor of Historical Theology, Wycliffe College. He is the author of A Brutal Unity: The Spiritual Politics of the Christian Church (2012). Brad Walton, Ph.D., is the author of Jonathan Edwards, Religious Affections, and the Puritan Analysis of True Piety, Spiritual Sensations, and Heart Religion (2002), and is a staff member of the University of Toronto Library. Nathan Wolfe received his Ph.D. in 2010 from the Toronto School of Theology, for a thesis entitled, Mobilizing Historiography: The English High Church Historians, 1888–1906. He is a staff member of the University of Toronto Library.

Index

A Act of Uniformity, 165, 169 Adelaide, ON, 136, 137, 138, 143 Adiaphora, 33, 68 Advisory Committee on Native Education (ACNE), 181, 186, 187, 190 Advisory Committee on Native Education in Tropical Africa (ACNETA), 181 Æthelberht (King of Northumbria), 35 Africa, 9, 31, 179, 180, 181–5, 191–5 Aggrey, James Kwegyir, 192 agnosticism/agnostic, 29, 93, 216, 218, 219 Ahwashgeskegaqua, Elizabeth, 143 Aidan, Bp, 30, 31, 39 Aldis, Ann, 141 Aldis, John, 141 Alison, C. Fitzsimmons, 85–6 Allen, Roland, 182–3 Ambrose, Bp, 54 Anabaptists, 68 Anglian Orthodoxy, 34, 35, 38 Anglican (mission), 39, 135, 138, 139, 155, 158, 181, 183, 187, 189, 192–4 Anglican Church of Canada, 143, 149, 199, 200, 202, 209 Anglicanism, vii, 4, 6, 8, 10, 34–5, 36, 38, 39, 115, 163, 173, 216, 222–3, 225 Anglo-Catholic, 4, 165, 171, 172, 222, 223

Anne of Halifax (ship), 136–7 apostates, 62, 110, 118, 127 Apostles Creed, 46, 228 Aquinas, Thomas, 4, 5, 46, 70, 225 archetypes king-in-council 30, 39 overking-in-battle 30–35 priestly 10, 32, 34, 35–6, 39 prophetic 32, 35, 37, 38-9 Aristotle, 70, 226 Arminians, 78 Articles of Religion (see Thirty-Nine Articles of Religion) Arva, ON, 136 assurance (doctrine), 7, 61, 65, 69, 71, 72, 79, 95, 97 atheism/atheist, 62, 102, 217, 218, 221 Augsburg, 72 Augsburg Confession, 13 Augustine, Bp of Canterbury, 152 Augustine, Bp of Hippo, 54, 215 Australia, 13, 38, 210 A Weeks Preparation (anonymous), 84 axiological questions, 31, 35, 37 Aylmer, Bp John, 63, 71 Azpilcueta, Martin de, 103

B baby boomer, 6, 206–7,209, 210 Badly, Lewis, 85 Baghdad, 19 Balfour, Prime Minister Arthur, 163

236 Baptism, 1, 2, 6, 13, 15, 21–24, 29, 47, 53, 77, 87–88, 138–43, 202, 204–7, 209, 210, 220, 225 Baptist Foreign Missionary Society, 180 Baptists, 1, 14, 225 Barfield, Owen, 219 Barlow, Montague, 172 Baxter, Richard, 3, 78, 86, 100 Beach, Sir Michael Hicks, 163 Bear Creek (Native band), 139, 140, 143 Beaver, Mary, 143 Becket, Archbp Thomas, 44, 45 Bede, 10–11, 29–31, 33–36, 38–40 Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum 30 Bellarmine, Robert, 63 Benedictines, 49 Bernard of Clairveaux, 104 Beza, Theodore, 69 Bible (Authorized Version, Irish translation), 115, 118–9, 123 Biddulph, Upper Canada, 135–6 Blake, Anne Margaret, 136 Blake, Dominick Edward, 136, 137, 138, 141, 143 Blake, Edward, 148 Blake, Frances Mary, 136, 141 Blake, Samuel Hume, 137 Blake, Sophia, 137 Blake, Wilhelmina Anne, 136 Blake, William Hume, 137, 141 body of Christ, 7, 18, 22–23, 25, 53–55, 77, 220, 221, 223, 224–8 Bolton, Robert, 98, 104 Bond, Bp William, 133 Book of Common Prayer (BCP), 3, 4, 68, 78–9, 82–3, 118, 121, 123–7, 149, 158, 165, 167, 169, 170–72, 207, 222–3, 225, 227 Boston, MA, 84 Boyle, Robert, 118–9 Brevint, Daniel, 3, 86 Brinton, Bp Thomas, 2, 3, 49–55 Brough, Charles, 136, 138 Burns, Jane, 141 Burton, Robert, 94, 99, 102–4 Byatt, Horace, 183, 184, 185

INDEX

C Cajetan, Thomas Cardinal, 5, 70 Calabria, Dom Giovanni, 214, 227 Calvin, John, 3, 4, 5, 21, 63, 66, 68–9, 78, 87 Calvinists, 3, 65, 68, 71, 78, 121 Cambridge Lutherans, 66 Cambridge University, 8, 49, 52, 135, 150, 151, 154, 155, 223 Cameron, Gov. Donald, 185 Campion, Edmund, 63, 71 Canada, 6, 8, 9, 14, 21, 133, 134–5, 137–9, 147, 148, 150, 154, 155, 157, 158, 199–202, 205, 210–211 Canalis, John, 143 Canalis, Mary, 142 Canalis, Minchin, 142 Canolong, Richard, 140, 143 Canoting, Joseph, 143 Canterbury, 4, 63, 173 Caradoc, ON, 139, 140, 141, 142 Carleton Co., 133 Carlow Co., 112, 116 Carmichael, James, 138 Carrington, Philip, 137 Carruthers, George, 139 Cartwright, Thomas, 165 Cary, Lucius (Viscount Falkland), 72 Casgrain, Henri Raymond, 157 Cassian, John, 94 Catharinus, 63 Catholic Emancipation, 134 Catholic, Roman, 7, 17, 18, 21, 43, 61, 62–4, 70, 72–3, 78, 94, 12, 187, 216, 218, 219, 221, 225, 227 Catholic, Tridentine, 13, 21 Catholicism, 4, 5, 18, 110, 111, 113, 114–6, 118 Celtic, 35 census, Canada, 6, 133, 134, 199, 200–201, 204 Charles I (King of England), 153 Charles II (King of England), 153 Chatham, ON, 137, 140 Chesterton, G. K., 218–9 China, 17

237

Index Chemin Neuf, 2, 25–6 Christendom, 7, 11, 30, 37, 66, 215, 216–8, 227 Christmas, 139, 142, 208, 219 Christology, 68, 71 Church Discipline Act, 171 Church Missionary Society (CMS), 9, 164, 183, 189, 191–4 Church of England, 5, 61, 62–4, 66, 67, 68, 70, 78, 79, 122, 133, 135, 139, 150, 158, 164–6, 167–8, 170, 173, 200–201, 205, 216, 218, 221, 224 Church of Ireland, 5, 109, 110, 113, 115–8, 120–22, 124–27, 216 Clandeboye, Upper Canada, 135 Clarendon, Lord, 113 Clarke, Sir Edward, 164 Cody, H. J., 149, 151, 155–6 Coffey, Rev. William, 112 Colman (Abbot of Lindisfarne), 32 Colonial Office, 181 Columba (Abbot of Iona), 32–3 Columbanus (Abbot of Bobbio), 33 Colville, Sir John, 138 communion (see eucharist) Coneys, Thomas De Vere, 138 Conference of Missionary Societies in Great Britain and Ireland, 181 Congo, 191 Constantine (Emperor), 44, 45, 215 Conventical Acts, 153 Conversion, 5, 10, 77, 95, 98, 114–5, 118–9, 123, 124–6, 137, 219, 226 Converts, 109–111, 113, 115, 116, 120, 121–2, 123, 126, 127, 224, 227 Cook, William, 116 Cork Co., 112, 139 Courtenay, Archbp William, 53 Cowley Fathers, 223 Cox, Elizabeth, 142 Cox, Francis, 142 Cranmer, Archbp Thomas, 222, 225 Cronyn, Bp Benjamin, 8, 136, 137–8, 139, 144 Cronyn, Hume Blake, 143 Cronyn, Margaret, 137 Cronyn, Rebecca, 137

Cronywm, Verschoyle, 137 Crump, Rev., 114 Cuthbert, Bp, 30

D Dar es Salaam, 186, 187, 192 Darwinism, 218 Davidson, Archbp Randall, 163–4, 169 deadly sins, seven, 50–51 Deism, 15 Delaware, ON, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144 Delaware (Native band), 143 Denominationalism, 2, 4, 5, 6, 77, 222 Depression, 6, 7, 38, 91–105 Derry Co, 116 Devil, 7, 52, 95, 96, 98, 100, 102–3, 224, 225 Dibdin, Sir Lewis, 164 Dillard, James, 185 Dissent, 71, 77, 113 Dissenters, 15, 123, 125, 126 Dix, Dom Gregory, 221 Dominicans, 70 Donation of Constantine, 44 Donatism/Donatist, 53, 77 Dopping, Bp Anthony, 5, 6, 109–127 doubt, 3, 13, 86, 95, 96, 100, 103 Drury, Rev. T. W., 164 du Moulin, John Philip, 138 Dublin, 110, 112, 113, 114, 115, 121, 135, 138 Du Bois, W. E. B., 180, 185 Dufferin Co., 134 Duffy, Eamon, 20 Duncan, Alminia, 142 Duncan, Thomas, 142 Dutch Reformed Church, 16

E Easter, 6, 53, 79, 87, 139, 144, 199, 208, 210 ecclesiology, 7, 151, 213, 214, 224, 226, 227 Edict of Nantes, 126

238 Edward VI (King of England), 66, 82, 167 Edward, Paul, 139 Edwin (King of Northumbria), 31, 33, 35 election (doctrine), 65, 69, 79, 103, 104 Eliot, T. S., 218 Elizabethan, 35, 65, 70 Elizabethan Settlement, 67 Elizabeth I (Queen of England), 66 Empiricism, 32, 36 English Reformation, 3, 64, 66, 67, 68, 150, 154 Enlightenment, 10, 36, 91 Episcopacy, 5, 35, 64, 65, 66 Eucharist, 2, 3, 5, 18, 23, 24, 30, 43, 45–8, 52–55, 62–63, 68, 69, 71, 78, 79–80, 88, 113, 167–8, 207–8, 225, 226–7 real presence 2, 7, 48, 54, 223 reception 3, 45, 54, 78–88 Evagrius Ponticus, 94 Evangelicals, 24, 137, 151, 158, 223 Excommunication, 3, 52, 125

F Fairchild, Benjamin, 142 faith, 2, 3, 6, 14, 15, 16, 19, 23, 24, 30, 34, 38, 39, 43, 46, 52, 61, 68, 70–73, 80, 82, 84, 86, 95, 102, 104, 120, 122, 149, 173, 214, 219, 220, 223–4 fatalism, 33 fear, 3, 30, 32, 35, 39, 79, 83, 85, 86, 92, 93, 95, 96–7, 100–103, 109, 111, 118, 189, 193, 227 feminism, 38, 210 Fermanagh Co., 135, 136 Fitzgerald, Thomas, 114 Fleury, Charles, 138, 139 Flood, Catherine Ann, 140, 141 Flood, Rev. Richard, 138, 139–44 Foster, Mark, 138 Fourth Lateran Council, 2, 45, 47, 54 Fox, David, 143 Fox, Louis (Native chief), 143 Foy, Eliza, 139

INDEX France, 13, 14, 17, 126 Francis, Abraham, 142 French Revolution, 37 Freud, Sigmund, 7, 105 Friars, 47, 48, 114, 121 Fulke, William, 66 Funerals, 6, 209, 213, 216

G Gaelic, 5, 6, 116, 119, 126 Garvey, Marcus, 180, 185 Gauden, John, 84 Geneva, 68, 69 Geneva Bible, 69 Germanic, 30 Germany, 14, 21, 24, 126, 218 Ghana, 192 Gibson, Rev. E. C. S., 164 Goderich, ON, 137 Gospel, 9, 20, 44, 47, 48, 79, 80, 87, 99, 167 Gothic architecture, 135 Grace, Archdn Thomas, 138 grace (doctrine), 5, 17, 18, 19, 24, 31, 33, 39, 62, 64, 65 69, 70, 77, 79–81, 83, 86, 88, 95–6, 100, 104, 220, 227 Great Schism, 29 Greece, 221 Greene, Graham, 218 Greenham, Richard, 101, 102 Gregory I (Pope), 94 Gregory XI (Pope), 49 Grenville Co., 133 Grey Co., 134 Grindal, Archbp Edmund, 63 Grosseteste, Robert, 45 Grotius, Hugo, 72 Guido of Monte Rochen, 46 Gunn, John, 143

H Hagar, Elizabeth, 142 Hague, Dyson, 152, 153, 155, 157, 158 Half Moon, William, 142

239

Index Halifax (Canada), 225 Hamilton, Thomas, 216 Hampton Court Conference, 65 Hampton, VA, 180 heaven, 32, 33, 103, 227 hell, 226 Hellmuth, Archdn Isaac, 138 Henry VIII (King of England), 34, 66, 152 heretics, 20, 21 hermeneutic, 30 allegorical 10, 30, 31, 32, 36 anagogical 10, 30, 31–34 historical/literal 10, 30, 32, 33, 71 tropological 10, 30, 31, 33–34 Hibbitts, Fr John, 225 Higgins, Paul, 115 high-church, 4, 151, 152, 158, 164, 167, 171, 216, 223 Hilary, Bp of Poitiers, 54 Hobbes, Thomas, 35 Hodge, Charles, 21 Hodgins, Lt-Col James, 135 Holland, 78 Holy Spirit, 7, 24, 26, 71–72, 87, 91, 95, 98, 103, 228 Hong Kong, 219 Hooker, Richard, 4–5, 61–73, 87, 151, 154, 225 A Christian Letter 66, 70 Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity 222 Hooper, Walter, 223 Huguenots, 6, 126 Hume, William, 136, 141 Huron College, London, Canada, 8, 136, 138 Huron (diocese), 8, 135, 136, 137, 138, 141, 144 Huntley Co., 134 Huxley, Aldous, 213

I iconoclasm/iconoclast, 222 individualism, 37, 225 indulgences, 47 Industrial Revolution, 36

infant baptism, 1, 204 Inge, W. R., 172 Intermarriage, 15, 16, 17 International Missionary Council (IMC), 9, 181 Iraq, 19, 22, 24 Ireland, 1, 5, 8, 109, 110, 112, 114, 118, 123, 125, 126, 133, 134, 135, 138, 215, 216 Irish (immigrants), 133–5, 138, 141 Irish Catholics, 5, 111, 115, 118–121, 125, 133, 216 Irish language, 115, 116, 118–119, 123, 124, 125, 126 Irish Protestants, 6, 8, 118–119, 124, 133, 135, 216 Islam, 2, 19, 22, 29 Israelites, 30

J Jacobite, 110–13, 116–17, 120, 127 James I (King of England), 65, 66 James II (King of England), 5–6, 109, 110, 111–13, 114, 115, 117, 119, 120 Javelli, Chrysostom, 70 Jeanes School, 185–6 Jesuits, 25, 63, 71, 221 Jeune, Sir Francis, 164 Jewel, Bp John, 64, 65–6 Jews, 1, 224 John of St. Thomas, 70 John Paul II (Pope), 19, 21 Joint Declaration on Justification, 18 Jones, Bp Henry, 119 Jones, Thomas Jesse, 179–80, 181–6, 189, 194 Judicial Committee of the Privy Council (JCPC), 165, 167, 169 justification by faith, 61–2, 64, 68–70, 71 Justinian (Emperor), 215

K Kasper, Walter Cardinal, 18, 25 Kettlewell, John, 84

240

INDEX

Kennaway, Sir John, 164 Kenya, 182–3, 186, 191 Kildare Co., 112 Kilkenny Co., 112, 137 Killaly, Catherine J. A., 139 King George (Native chief), 143 King, Archbp William, 111, 115–16, 125 Kiswahili, 188, 190–1 Kylie, E. J., 152

Lord’s Day, 78, 88 Lord’s Prayer, 48–9, 78 Louis XIV (King of France), 126 Love, Christopher, 99 low-church, 164, 167, 216, 223 Lutherans, 13, 14, 18, 66, 70, 77, 187 Luther, Martin, 1, 4, 5, 63, 67–8

L

Madagascar, 13 Magdalen College, Oxford, 223 Magdalene College, Cambridge, 223 Magic, 226 Magisterium, 10, 32, 35–6 Magistracy, 36 Mahew, William, 141 Malawi, 186, 192 Manby, Rev. Peter, 114–15 Marangu, Tanzania, 187, 189 Marburg, 72 March Co., 134 Marian martyrs, 66 Marlbourough Co., 134 Marriage, 15–16, 23, 25, 47, 115–16, 137, 138–41, 142–3, 202, 205, 209 Marsh, Bp Narcissus, 111, 114–16, 119, 123 Martin of Tours, 44 martyrs (Uganda), 19 Mary I (Queen of England), 66 Masingisa, Yusufu, 192 Maskilounge, James, 139 Mass, 63, 78, 80, 113, 121, 168, 221, 225 Mayo Co., 138 McDonald, George, 217 McGrath, Alister, 213–14, 215, 222, 223–4 McKerracher Report, 199 Meath Co., 5, 109, 112, 114, 119 Melancholia, melacholy, 6, 91–108 passim Mendicant orders, friars, 45, 47–8 Mennonites, 14, 16 Mercer-Wilson, R., 155, 156 Methodist College, Belfast, 216 Methodists (Canada), 200, 201

Lambeth Articles, 65 Lambeth Conference, 4, 18, 173 Lambeth Palace, 25, 137, 138 Lambeth Quadrilateral, 4, 173 Lanark Co., 133–4 Laois Co., 112 Last Gospel, the, 167 Last Judgement, 103 Laud, Archbp William, 65, 153 Laudians, 78 Leeds Co., 133–4 Lewis, Albert, 216 Lewis, C. S., 7, 213–31 passim Letters to an American Lady 214 Letters to Malcolm 214, 226–7 Mere Christianity 220, 226 Pilgrim’s Regress 219 Screwtape Letters 214, 224–5 Surprised by Joy 216–17 Lewis, Flora, 216 Lewis, Warnie, 219 Leys, Norman, 9–10, 182–3 Le Zoute Conference, 182–3, 184, 189–90, 192 Lima Statement, 23 Lindisfarne, 30–1, 38 Liturgy, 65, 80, 82–3, 109–32 passim, 221–3, 225 Lollards, 56 London, England, 53, 100, 137, 172, 181 London, ON, 137, 139 Longford Co., 112, 137 Loram, C. T., 190–1 Lord’s anointed, 32, 34

M

241

Index Middlesex Co., 139 Millman, Thomas, 134, 157 Mind, 10, 31–4, 36, 48 Modernity, 36, 105 Monarch/monarchism, 5, 10, 32, 35, 37, 39, 65, 67 Monastery/monasticism, 10, 30, 34–6, 38, 39, 93–4, 154, 223 Monks, 30, 114, 223 Montreal Diocesan College, 138 Montreal, QC, 133, 134, 135, 138, 154 Moore, Rev. Alexander, 114 More, Sir Thomas, 20 Mowll, H. W. K., 155 Muhammed, 19 Mullan, John, 115 Muncey (Native band), 139, 140, 142, 143 Müntzer, Thomas, 68 Mystici corporis, 22 Myth, 7, 134, 217, 218–19, 224

N Napier, ON, 139 Narnia, 220 National Socialism, 20 Native Affairs Commission, 190 Nature religion (see Wodenism) New York, 24, 179 New Zealand, 38, 210 Nigeria, 24 Non-Conformists, 3, 164 Nonjurors, 158 North America, 13, 17, 38, 135, 207 Northern Ireland, 215 Nova Scotia, 149

O Offaly Co., 112, 113 Oldham, J. H., 9, 181–3 Oneida (Native band), 139–40, 143, 144 Orthodox, 7, 18, 24, 221, 226 Oswiu (King of Northumbria), 32 Owen Sound, ON, 137 Owen, John, 78, 87

Oxford Movement (see Tractarianism) Oxford University, 8, 43, 49, 54, 56, 135, 150, 151, 154, 217, 219, 221, 223, 225

P Paget, Bp Francis, 164 Pakistan, 19, 21 Papacy, Pope, 2, 5, 19, 22, 24, 44, 52, 62–3, 70, 73, 86, 110, 121, 152, 221 Parliament, 4, 37, 123–6, 163, 169–73 Patrick, Simon, 84, 86 Pearce, John & Frances, 136 Peckham, John, 45 Peel Co., 134 Pelagianism, 61 Pemble, William, 84 Penal laws, 6, 126, 127 Penance, 47, 53–5, 121–2 Penitents, 110, 123 Pentecostals, 16, 24, 38 Perkins, William, 95–8, 104 Perrytown, ON, 135 Pharisees, 72 Phelps-Stokes Commission, 9, 179–80, 181, 185, 190, 192 Phelps-Stokes Fund, 181, 185 Philip (King of Spain), 35 Phillimore, Sir Walter, 169 Pontifical Council for Promoting Christian Unity, 25 Poole, Matthew, 91 Port Hope, ON, Canada, 135 Powell, Ann, 142 Powell, Thomas, 142 Prayer, 2, 25, 29, 46, 48–9, 67, 78, 84, 86, 88, 101, 117–18, 120–1, 122, 125, 168, 223 Preaching, 24, 37, 39, 43–59 passim, 61, 64, 69, 79, 104, 126, 144, 148, 225 Presbyterian Church of Canada, 200, 201, 210 Presbyterians, 21, 65, 126, 141, 217 Price, Archbp Thomas, 119

242 Protestant Episcopal Church of the United States of America, 200 Pseudo-Thomas, 63 Public Worship Act, 163, 171 Purgatory, 36, 104, 121 Puritans, 3, 36, 64, 66, 78–9, 83, 87, 88, 153

Q Quakers, 126, 141 Quebec, 134, 149 Quebec City, QC, 135 Queen’s Council, 63

R Ranelagh, Lady Katherine, 118–19 Rawlings, Mary, 139 Reformation, viii, 1, 3–4, 5, 8–9, 10–11, 13–28 passim, 35–6, 61, 63–4, 66–8, 70, 71–2, 77, 80, 82, 88, 93, 109, 115, 119, 123, 150, 152, 154, 169, 173, 228 Reformed Church (Calvinist), 4–5, 16, 21, 61–2, 65, 70–2, 78–80, 167, 173 Regensburg, 72 Renaissance, 92, 93–4, 214, 217, 225 Renfrew Co., 133 Richardson, John, 125 Ritualism, 163 Rogers, Timothy, 91, 100–2 Rome, 3, 5, 21, 22, 30, 35, 62, 79, 115, 116, 117, 118, 120, 122, 167, 168, 172, 221 Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline, 163–77 passim Royal Commission on Ritual, 163 Royal supremacy, 4, 63, 65, 68, 169, 173 Russian Revolution, 37

S Sall, Andrew, 115 Salvation Army, 37, 210 Sanctification, 62, 69, 95

INDEX Sandys, Edmund, 65, 72 Scholasticism, Scholastics, 70, 87, 94 Scientific Revolution, 36 Scotland, 65, 116 Scots (immigrants), 116, 134 Scotus, Duns, 70 Scripture, 2, 5, 8, 32, 34–7, 39, 54, 55, 62, 64, 66–7, 68, 71–2, 80, 88, 91, 103, 120, 122, 125, 170, 214, 217 Second Vatican Council, 4, 22–3, 73 Secular, 1, 2, 9, 10, 14, 22, 29, 37, 45, 102, 114, 117, 148, 172, 179, 182, 184, 188, 194, 195 Seventh-Day Adventists, 225 Sheil, William, 112 Sheraton, James P., 148, 156–8 Sibbes, Richard, 87–8 Simcoe Co., 134 Smith, Edwin, 182, 192 Snake, ‘Shoemaker’, 139, 143 Snake, Cpt James, 139, 142 Society for the Propagation of the Gospel (SPG), 137 Sola fide, 5, 71 Sola scriptura, 5, 71 Somner, Peter (Native chief), 143 St Catharines, ON, 138 St Thomas, ON, 137 Starr, Richard Noble, 140 Stewart, Bp Charles James, 134 Storey, Mary Patterson, 136 Strahan, Bp John, 140 Strathroy, ON, 138 Sullivan, Edward, 138 Sunday School, 6, 199, 203–4, 209, 210 Switzerland, 14–15 Sydney, Australia, 13 Sylvester (Pope), 44–5 Synge, Bp Edward, 123

T Taizé, 14, 26 Talbot, Col Thomas, 136 Tanganyika, 183 Tanzania, 9–10, 179–94 passim Taylor, Jeremy, 84–6

243

Index Tecomby (Native chief), 142 Ten Commandments (Decalogue), 46, 78 Theodore of Canterbury, 30–1, 35 Thirty Years War, 37 Thirty-Nine Articles of Religion, 13, 66–7, 103, 122 Thomas, W. H. Griffith, 155, 156 Thomism, 70 Thoresby, Archbp John, 45 Thornhill, ON, 136 Tipperary Co., 135 Tolkien, J. R. R., 219 Tories, 117 Toronto, ON, vii, 8, 39, 134, 135, 140, 141, 147, 154, 155 Toronto, University of, 8–9, 136, 147–62 passim Tractarianism, 152, 154, 158 Transubstantiation (doctrine), 47–8, 52–4, 62, 81, 121, 166 Travers, Walter, 61–2, 65 Trench, Archbp Power, 137–8 Trent, Council of, 13, 21, 62, 121 Trinity, 1, 21 Trinity College, Dublin, 115, 119, 135, 138 Trinity College, Toronto, 152, 153 Troeltsch, Ernst, 13 Tuscorora (Native band), 143 Tyndale, William, 20 Tyrconnell, 136

U Uganda, 19, 191 United Church of Canada, 200, 201, 210 United Empire Loyalist, 134 Universities’ Mission to Central Africa (UMCA), 189, 192 University College, Toronto, 149, 150–2, 153 Upper Canada, 133–45 passim Urban V (Pope), 49 Utopianism, 37–8 Ut unum sint, 22

V van Braght, Thieleman, 16 Verschoyle, Bp Hamilton, 137 Vicars, John, 82

W Walton, Izaak, 73 Waterford Co., 112 Waugh, Evelyn, 218 Weddings, 6, 17, 139, 209–10 Wesleyans, 37 Westmeath Co., 112 Westminster Confession of Faith, 3, 83 Wetenhall, Bp Edward, 112, 123 Whitby, Council of, 36 Wicklow Co., 136 Whitgift, John, 62, 65, 71 Wilfrid, Bp of York, 32 William I (King of England), 35, 152 William III (King of England), 5–6, 109, 110, 111, 119, 124, 125 Williams, Archbp Rowan, 218, 220 Wodenism, 30, 35–6, 39 Woodstock, ON, 137 World Council of Churches (WCC), 23 World Missionary Conference (WMC), 179 World War, First, 37, 171, 183, 217 World War, Second, 6, 17, 20, 205 Wrong, George M., 8, 147, 149, 151–8 passim Wyclif, John, 2–3, 43–59 passim, 66 Wycliffe College, Toronto, vii, viii, 8–9, 39, 138, 147–62 passim

Y York Co., 134 York, England, 45, 46 Young, McGregor, 150

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