One can hardly say that Lent is in full swing. Lent doesn’t swing. Or at least, if your Lent is swinging, I think you’re doing it wrong. Lent ticks by, more like an austere grandfather clock. If there’s any swinging, it should go on behind closed doors.
As if Lent couldn’t be any more austere, today is an Ember Day. As it happens, the General Synod is meeting today. One might think that today has been declared an Ember Day in anticipation of the Church of England burning itself to the ground.
Serious self-immolation rarely happens in the Church of England. We tend to shoot ourselves in one foot before taking careful aim at the other, and then, by the grace of God, miss. We then limp along wondering why everyone else seems to be skipping along much more readily.
So what is an Ember Day?
Ember Days
From the Old English ‘ymbryne’ meaning ‘period’ or ‘circuit’, an Ember Day is an extra period of fasting that happens every quarter so you can commemorates the Passion of Christ in each season. It takes place on the Wednesday, Friday and Saturday after St Lucy's Day (13 December (nope, me neither)), the first Sunday in Lent, Pentecost (Whitsun), and Holy Cross Day (14 September). There is apparently an Old English rhyme to help you remember these four days:
Fasting days and Emberings be
Lent, Whitsun, Holyrood, and Lucie.
Or you can remember these as "Lenty, Penty, Crucy, Lucy".
Why these three Ember days? On the Wednesday, Judas went to betray Jesus. On the Friday, Jesus was crucified. On the Saturday, Jesus spent a day in Hades. Or Harrowing Hell while we prepare to celebrate Resurrection. Thursdays are not Ember Days because, er, there’s not a big-ticket passion event that requires fasting. Some of you may be relieved to know that the Anglican Communion made fasting optional in 1976. Ember Saturdays are often now connected with ordination.
One reason I’ve been finding all this out is because I’m an Anglican. And I’m more Anglican now than I’ve ever been, being one of five representatives of the laity of my diocese, Bath and Wells since 2015. I also represent the House of Laity on the Archbishops’ Council. There are numerous other sub-committees on which I sit. You could say I’m up to my neck in it.
How did this happen? How did I end up an Anglican? I have pretty specific theological views and the Church of England has also been perceived as broad. (It isn’t actually. It is doctrinally thoroughly reformed. But that’s one for another time).
I reveal all in the most recent chapter of The Gospel According to a Sitcom Writer which dropped on Monday. You can listen here. It’ll take about twenty minutes and is, I venture to suggest, time well spent, not least because you can wash up, walk the dog or chop wood while you listen. You will also hear me talk about Father Ted, The Vicar of Dibley and Rev. There’s also a joke about the United Reformed Church you can listen out for.
No? Okay. Well, here’s how it begins in written form:
Losing your religion
Or: How I stayed an Anglican despite believing in miracles
The believers in miracles accept them (rightly or wrongly) because they have evidence for them. The disbelievers in miracles deny them (rightly or wrongly) because they have a doctrine against them. (Orthodoxy, G. K. Chesterton)
Autobiographies by Christians often have a chapter about doubts, and those long, dark nights of the soul, extreme tests and suffering, where it felt like God wasn’t there, or that this whole Christian story felt like a fabric of interwoven myths, embellishments and politically motivated mind tricks. The title of this chapter would suggest this is my chapter like that.
It isn’t. Or at least it’s not about my doubts. This chapter is about the doubts of others. The chapter title is derived from the mournful song ‘Losing My Religion’ by REM that was everywhere in the early nineties. It felt like a better title than the first line of the song ‘You Sexy Thing’ by Hot Chocolate about believing in miracles.
Do I believe in miracles?
In the Gospel accounts, the miracles of Jesus are rarely questioned or doubted. Even when Lazarus is raised from the dead in John 11, the reports from those who were there are assumed to be true. In fact, they worry that this will make Jesus too popular.
Read the Gospels carefully and you will see that the scepticism of Jesus’ enemies comes from a logical standpoint, not a faith one. But it’s not the logic that you would expect. It was widely believed that God did not answer the prayers of the unrighteous. Jesus, being an unrighteous, blaspheming, Sabbath-breaker, will not have his prayers answered. System error. Does not compute. Turn off and on again.
That was then. This is now. Do I believe the miracles recounted in the Gospels? Do I believe that Jesus turned water into wine? Did he feed the five thousand people? Did he raise Lazarus from the dead? Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes.
I believe in miracles in the Bible without hesitation. I believe that my view has made a resurgence in the Church of England in recent years, as I will explain in a moment. And, in the style of G. K. Chesterton, I would say it’s not just possible to believe in miracles, but that it’s impossible to not believe in them.
Read the rest of the chapter in The Gospel According to a Sitcom Writer – or listen to me read it to you for free here:
Your explanation of the three broad groups of Anglicans was an eye opener. I think it’s something I had already sensed, but not articulated in my mind. Think I’m in the third lot! As I am currently struggling with my participation in local church, this talk was helpful, so thanks for that.
You’ve said elsewhere, I think, that the ‘Church of England has also been perceived as broad. (It isn’t actually. It is doctrinally thoroughly reformed. But that’s one for another time).
I agree with your position on that, but I’m also waiting for your explanation of it. When can I/we expect it?