Signs of the wisdom, decency, and sobriety of the Old High tradition

I am not sure of the origin of the illustration which was circulated on Anglican Twitter some weeks ago (apologies to the person who designed it), but I did enjoy considering its options.  Such things are not, of course, to be taken too seriously.  Thinking about my instinctive answers, however, I realized that they provided a rather good expression of why I value the Old High tradition.  Today's post offers some extended thoughts on these choices.

Archbishops of Canterbury - D, William Howley, 1828-48.

This might be regarded as my most surprising choice.  Why not Laud? I do, of course, admire Laud for his defence of the ecclesia Anglicana against the gathering storm inspired by Puritan agitation. What gives me pause, however, is perhaps best summarised by Hume's judgement that he did not act "with the enlarged sentiments and cool reflection of a legislator".

While rejecting the deeply inaccurate portrayals of Laud which still dominate historical accounts (Sharpe's The Personal Rule of Charles I is a significant exception), it remains the case - as Hume indicates - that a more irenic, modest approach by him could have persuaded a greater portion of the political nation to convincingly defend the Church against Puritan assault. Hume is perhaps rather unfair when he states that Laud pursued his vision with "the intemperate zeal of a sectary", but the very fact that the charge can be levelled is not insignificant.

What, however, of Howley? Part of my attraction to him is that he was the last Archbishop of Canterbury to emerge from the circle of the Hackney Phalanx, that group which brilliantly embodied the dominant Old High tradition of the early 19th century Church of England. As James Garrard's excellent study of Howley shows, he stands as a reminder of the vitality - theological, cultural, and spiritual - of the Hanoverian Church of England. Related to this, as Garrard notes, Howley also demonstrated how the Church of England could "adapt well to change without recourse to radical reform or legislation". 

Living through the bloody turmoil unleased by the Revolution in France, Howley was unsurprisingly deeply sceptical of progressive reform projects, as he stated in Burkean fashion in his 1828 Primary Visitation Charge to the clergy of the Diocese of Canterbury:

The Church, like all institutions under the direction of man, has unquestionably defects and imperfections. But that which at first sight offends, is not always wrong. Parts, which singly considered are pronounced to be faulty, may be found on a larger survey to possess a relative excellence, and to contribute by their bearings on the whole of the system to a beneficial result. A system again, far short

of theoretic perfection, may be exquisitely adapted to the combinations of circumstances in this mixed state of things. In respect to the conduct of affairs more especially some allowance is necessary; and things really objectionable may possibly be altered for the worse, if we forget that perfection in wisdom and virtue is not the lot of man.

He did, of course, famously oppose both Catholic Emancipation and the Great Reform Act, constitutional reforms which profoundly altered the relationship between the Church and Parliament. Having opposed these reforms, however, he led the Church of England with calm, thoughtful moderation in the new constitutional context, a constitutional context recognisably 'modern' and post-ancien regime. 

What is more, I cannot help but identify with his understanding of how the ecclesia Anglicana was able - to use a phrase taken from theologian Andrew Davison - "to present and embody accounts of what it means to be human that are attractive, sane and wise". To again quote from Howley's 1828 Charge:

looking to the claims of our Church to just veneration, from the character of its Clergy, and the services

they have rendered to religion, to liberty, and to literature; from the beneficial influence of its principles on the institutions, the laws, and the manners of the Country; and from its prominent station as the bulwark of Protestantism in the Christian world, I am unwilling to hazard its safety by rash innovation.

Edition of the Book of Common Prayer - !, 1662 (Church of England)

It does not, I am sure, surprise readers of laudable Practice that I would choose without hesitation BCP 1662 rather than the alternatives offered. It is the liturgy which has most shaped and sustained me in my earthly pilgrimage: when praying Mattins alone, administering the holy Sacrament with the deeply meaningful words of administration taken from 1559, and in the rhythms of Choral Evensong in the parish church.

My answer, however, comes with an important qualification: 1662, as wisely revised by the Church of Ireland in 1878/1926. The Irish revision of the 1662 Book followed some of sensible changes proposed in the 1689 Liturgy of Comprehension: removing the rubric directing use of the Athanasian Creed (what we might call the 'Taylor Option'), replacing the form of absolution in the Visitation of the Sick (reflecting the caution of Taylor of the 18th century High Church tradition), and providing a rubric at the conclusion of the Baptismal Office explaining that the "ancient and laudable" use of the sign of the Cross "is not thereby intended to add any new rite to the Sacrament as a part of it, or necessary to it; or that the using that sign is of any virtue or efficacy of itself". These revisions - together with keeping 1662's Holy Communion, Holy Baptism, and Ordinal unchanged (despite evangelical demands) - ensured that BCP functioned as a primary means of unity and comprehension for the disestablished Church of Ireland. This is superbly captured in the closing words of the 1878 Preface:

And now, if some shall complain that these changes are not enough, and that we should have taken this opportunity of making this Book as perfect in all respects as they think it might be made, or if others shall say that these changes have been unnecessary or excessive, and that what was already excellent has been impaired by doing that which, in their opinion, might well have been left undone, let them, on the one side and the other, consider that men's judgements of perfection are very various, and that what is imperfect, with peace, is often better than what is otherwise more excellent, without it.

The Irish revision also provided a form of Harvest Thanksgiving which has deeply influenced Irish Anglican piety; a collect, epistle and gospel for Saint Patrick (giving expression to the opening words of the 1870 Declaration, "this the Ancient Catholick and Apostolick Church of Ireland"); a revised Penitential Service for the first day of Lent, which became much loved; and an introduction to the Marriage rite that is widely recognised to be much superior to that in 1662.

Mention should, however, be made of one aspect of the 1878/1926 revision - following the 1689 Liturgy of Comprehension - that the Old High tradition might regret: the exclusion of the Apocrypha from the daily readings for Mattins and Evensong (with the important exception that the Benedicite was retained at Mattins). I certainly value the reading of the Apocrypha and its influence on Anglican theology is a subject for rich reflection. That said, the Old High British Critic in 1828 was prepared to countenance removal of the readings from the Apocrypha:

The compilers of our Liturgy were of opinion that the Apocrypha might be read with advantage on the weekdays, and on holy days. Good and pious men in more modern times have thought otherwise, and the question is open to fair and temperate discussion. Upon the whole, it might perhaps be best to exclude the Apocrypha from being read in our churches, since the lessons taken from it seem objectionable to some persons: whereas there are none who object to the reading of canonical scripture.

Or, as the Irish revisers would later say, "what is imperfect, with peace, is often better than what is otherwise more excellent, without it". 

In conclusion, when I as an Irish Anglican say '1662' what I really mean is '1926', with gratitude for the gracious, gentle wisdom of the Irish revision. 

(Note, however, that I am perfectly content worshipping with the other authorised forms of the BCP referenced. Common Prayer, after all, is not about the exercise of individual choice.  Related to this, Ireland's BCP 1926 is to all intents and purposes incorporated in BCP 2004.) 

Theologians - 2, Jeremy Taylor

Well, of course, it has to be Taylor. George Rust said, in his sermon at Taylor's funeral, that he lived in a time when "a fearful Tempest arose ... and brought all things into disorder and confusion".  It was amidst the bloody chaos of the Wars of the Three Kingdoms, with episcopacy and liturgy prohibited, that Taylor produced most of his writings. As Taylor said in the dedication of Holy Living:

I have lived to see Religion painted upon Banners, and thrust out of Churches, and the Temple turned into a Tabernacle, and that Tabernacle made ambulatory, and covered with skins of Beasts and torn Curtains, and God to be worshipped not as he is the Father of our Lord Jesus (an afflicted Prince, the King of sufferings) nor, as the God of peace (which two appellatives God newly took upon him in the New Testament, and glories in for ever:) but he is owned now rather as the Lord of Hosts, which title he was pleased to lay aside when the Kingdom of the Gospel was preached by the Prince of peace.

It was in this harsh context that Taylor drew together the Great Tew Circle and Laudianism, the Cambridge Platonists and the High Church tradition - what Kenneth Kirk described as "combining the principle of authority with that of freedom".  Taylor saw the consequences throughout the 1640s and 50s of overthrowing "the principle of authority". This explains his understanding on the need for episcopacy and the liturgy, and his support for the civil authorities after the Restoration challenging religious non-conformity: as he had witnessed in the 1640s, civic peace was torn asunder by "religion painted upon banners". 

He also, however, robustly opposed the "tyranny over consciences" he saw in the systems of Rome and Geneva.  Likewise, the subscription required by Ministers of the Church of England, Taylor declared, was not for the purpose of binding the conscience: as he stated in Ductor dubitantium, "it binds us onely to the conservation of peace and unity".  This understanding was also to be found in one of his most controversial (but eminently reasonable) works, Unum Necessarium:

The Church of England speaks moderate words, apt to be construed to the purposes of all peaceable Men that desire her Communion ... it is not unusual for Churches, in matters of difficulty, to frame their Articles so as to serve the ends of peace.

In "combining the principle of authority with that of freedom", Taylor was anticipating how the later Old High tradition would similarly be shaped by Laudian and Cambridge Platonist, Cosin and Tillotson. The quiet, modest, peaceable spirit of Taylor would be the Old High ethos. Some extracts from his sermons illustrate this:

Do not trouble your people with controversies: whatsoever does gender strife, the apostle commands us to avoid; and, therefore, much more the strife itself: a controversy is a stone in the mouth of the hearer, who should be fed with bread, and it is a temptation to the preacher, it is a state of temptation; it engages one side in lying, and both in uncertainty and uncharitableness; and after all, it is not food for souls; it is the food of contention, it is a spiritual lawsuit, and it can never be ended; every man is right, and every man is wrong in these things, and no man can tell who is right, or who is wrong.

(From 'The Minister's Duty in Life and Doctrine', Part II.)

He was 'the Lord of hosts', and He is still what He was, but He loves to be called the 'God of peace'; because He was terrible in that, but He is delighted in this. His mercy is His glory, and His glory is the light of heaven. His mercy is the life of the creation, and it fills all the earth; and His mercy is a sea too, and it fills all the abysses of the deep: it hath given us promises for supply of whatsoever we need, and relieves us in all our fears and in all the evils that we suffer. His mercies are more than we can tell, and they are more than we can feel.

(From 'The Miracles of the Divine Mercy', Part III.)

For religion hath strengths enough of its own to support itself; it needs not a devil for its advocate: it is the breath of God; and as it is purer than the beams of the morning, so it is stronger than a tempest, or the combination of all the winds, though united by the prince that ruleth in the air ... And he that tells a lie for his religion, or goes about by fraud and imposture to gain proselytes, either dares not trust his cause, or dares not trust God. True religion is open in its articles, honest in its prosecutions, just in its conduct, innocent when it is accused, ignorant of falsehood, sure in its truth, simple in its sayings.

(From 'Of Christian Simplicity', Part I.)

It was George Rust who in many ways embodied the legacy Taylor bequeathed to Anglicanism.  Rust was a Cambridge Platonist, invited by Taylor to his new diocese at the Restoration, received the orders of deacon and priest from Taylor in 1661, preached at Taylor's funeral, succeeded him as Bishop of Dromore, and was buried alongside him in Dromore Cathedral. It is, therefore, fitting to give the last word here to Rust, in his funeral sermon for Taylor:

that which made his Wit and Judgment so considerable, was the largeness and freedom of his Spirit, for truth is plain and easie to a mind dis-intangled from Superstition and Prejudice; He was one of ... a sort of brave Philosophers that Laërtius speaks of, that did not addict themselves to any particular Sect, but ingenuously sought for Truth among all the wrangling Schools; and they found her miserably torn and rent to pieces, and parcell'd into Raggs, by the several contending Parties, and so disfigur'd and mishapen, that it was hard to know her; but they made a shift to gather up her scatter'd Limbs, which as soon as they came together by a strange sympathy and connaturalness, presently united into a lovely and beautiful body. This was the Spirit of this Great Man; he weighed Mens Reasons, and not their Names, and was not scar'd with the ugly Vizars men usually put upon Persons they hate, and Opinions they dislike; nor affrighted with the Anathema's and Execrations of an infallible Chair, which he look'd upon only as Bug-bears to terrifie weak, and childish minds. He consider'd that it is not likely any one Party should wholly engross Truth to themselves; that Obedience is the only way to true Knowledge ... that God always, and only teaches docible and ingenuous minds, that are willing to hear, and ready to obey according to their Light; that it is impossible, a pure, humble, resigned, God-like Soul, should be kept out of Heaven, whatever mistakes it might be subject to in this state of Mortality; that the design of Heaven is not to fill mens heads, and feed their Curiosities, but to better their Hearts; and mend their Lives. Such Considerations as these, made him impartial in his Disquisitions, and give a due allowance to the Reasons of his Adversary, and contend for Truth, and not for Victory.

Ornaments - a, altar rails

Why not one of the other ornaments proposed? To begin with, the monstrance was never going to be my choice. A monstrance signals a Eucharistic theology entirely contrary to Article 28, utterly rejected by the Old High tradition, having no place in the sober sacramental piety of the Book of Common Prayer.

While I do reverence the memory of the Royal Martyr, I am very hesitant indeed about this becoming a form of Enthusiasm, far removed from ordinary Anglican piety. The fact that liturgical commemoration of the Royal Martyr has had no place in the Prayer Books of the disestablished Church of Ireland increases my hesitancy.  What is more, I think that existing civic commemorations in Anglican liturgical calendars - for example, Accession Day in the Church of Ireland in Northern Ireland, Independence Day in TEC - are the proper focus for a political theology, rather than attempting to revive long forgotten commemorations.  In this regards, Burke's strictures against the "old fanatics of single arbitrary power" also come to mind (reflected in 18th century High Church thought).  Finally, the rather weird and ahistorical Anglo-catholic cultus of Charles ('High Mass' on 30th January - really?) convinces me that d could not be my choice.

What of a plain Cross on the Holy Table? I am well used to and do value this ornament. It can provide a focus for reflection in the liturgy, echoing the sign of the Cross we receive at our Baptism and bringing to mind "not only Christ Crucified, but the Force, Effects, and Merits of His Death and Passion, with all the Comforts, Fruits and Promises, which we receive or expect thereby" (Canon XXX of the 1604 English Canons). As with the sign of the Cross in Holy Baptism, however, the absence of a plain Cross from the Holy Table is not a significant matter.  As Canon XXX said of the ceremony in Baptism, "doth neither add any thing to the Vertue or Perfection of Baptism, nor being omitted, doth detract any thing from the Effect and Substance of it". A plain Cross on the Holy Table, therefore, is an ornament the absence of which does not unduly concern me.

When it comes to stained glass, I confess that in recent years I have found myself attracted to the plain glass found in some Anglican country churches. Malcolm Guite's sonnet 'Hatley St. George' captures the quiet beauty that plain glass can offer:

Stand here a while and drink the silence in.

Where clear glass lets in living light to touch

And bless your eyes. 

There is something about stained glass and its "living light" which is appropriate for Sunday Mattins; something which complements Evensong as Sunday draws to a close; something which points to the coherence of creation and redemption; an indication that, as Whichcote affirms, "God, as the author of Nature and of Grace, does agree perfectly with Himself".

Which brings us to a, altar rails. Yes, I can hear some complain that these were a later Laudian innovation, not required for Cranmerian Holy Communion.  Be that as it may, the Laudian desire to ensure reverent reception of the Holy Communion was hardly incompatible with the Prayer Book's "for the avoiding of ... profanation and disorder in the Holy Communion".  What is more, the chastened, wiser post-Restoration Laudianism which guided the later 17th century acceptance of altar rails ensured that the process was organic, with popular support, and quickly became the uncontroversial Anglican norm, a "comely uniformity" fitting for Prayer Book worship.  

And that is why I would choose altar rails as the ornament which defines my Old High understanding: they are "comely", providing for the gesture which defines the quiet, modest sacramental piety of Prayer Book Holy Communion, kneeling to receive.

Howley of Canterbury, BCP 1662 (as revised in Ireland 1878/1926), Jeremy Taylor, and altar rails.  It is certainly not at all the only way to be Old High but it is why I value the Old High tradition. Or, to be more precise, these exemplify what I understand to be the wisdom, decency, and sobriety of the Old High tradition.