A Church That Can Still Change Lives

by Chris Chivers

[Ed. Note: This article is based on a sermon that was originally preached at Westminster Abbey on January 25, 2004.]

The Week of Prayer for Christian Unity just ended, and at the start of it we were invited to hear again the call to be one, as Jesus and the Father are one. But here, in this church, last week's sermon also set before us a deep sense of unease in relation to the week, as we were faced with the reality that unity is possible only when we appreciate a little more clearly our diversity. And we must begin to do this, our preacher suggested, by understanding our own piece of the Christian jigsaw -- by appreciating who we are and something more of the richness that our tradition has handed to us.

Given the events of recent months, with many Anglicans seeming quite simply to have forgotten their roots and to be neglecting the ways in which they have traditionally reflected on the relationship of God and world, this cautionary note -- a nervousness about this week of prayer -- is one that we have to take very seriously indeed. For without solid roots we won't develop the wings that will enable us to overcome all that divides Christians, one from another. And without a firm handle on our own tradition, any unity that might appear to be emerging is likely to be of the "Emperor's new clothes" variety -- rather illusory and ultimately unsustainable.

How do we resolve the tension here between a church which needs to guard and cherish its self-understanding, and a church which can all too easily collapse in on itself in the process, between a church that needs firm roots and strong traditions, and a church that can only expose and understand them as it engages with the reality of the world?

But there is of course another side to this business of self-understanding. Since when the church works away at what it is and what it believes, the danger of introspection -- of closing in on itself to the exclusion of anything outside its cloistered environment -- looms large. And when it closes itself off from the world in this way, it can all too easily lose sight of the very context in which it is to find and to articulate its self-understanding. Looking inwards it shuts out and all too frequently shuts down. And, if we're honest, we've seen rather too much of that tendency in the last few months as well. So how do we resolve the tension here between a church which needs to guard and cherish its self-understanding, and a church which can all too easily collapse in on itself in the process, between a church that needs firm roots and strong traditions, and a church that can only expose and understand them as it engages with the reality of the world?

Historically, Anglicans have sought answers to those questions not by recourse to a set of doctrines or dogmas but in their worship. And my appreciation of this way of approaching those questions was heightened ten days ago when Westminster Abbey played host to an act of witness against gun-crime in our cities, a service entitled "Hope against Violence."

To set the scene, you have to imagine the Abbey full to capacity with two thousand people, on a rather cold, dark, and very wet January evening. And you need to know that many of these people were from the most deprived parts of this city. Most of them were from London's black communities. All of them had in some way or other been deeply affected or infected by the cancer of violent crime that is eating away at the moral fabric of our society. They needed then a place in which they would be heard, a context -- a space -- within which to express their fears and concerns, and to re-imagine what life in their communities could be like. So they gathered here to address a very particular issue, to articulate a common crie de coeur, and in the hope that they might discover a shared vision for a better future as they did so.

But this was no ordinary coalition of people. There were victims of gun-crimes -- those who had lost loved ones as a result of such violence -- and alongside them were some of the gang-leaders and gun criminals themselves, together with people who have the responsibility of making laws and of policing them. Emotions were certainly very raw. Throughout the service a woman sobbed almost inconsolably just beneath this pulpit. And others stared blankly around them, confused, no doubt, but also, one imagines, soaking in the beauty of the place -- enjoying, however fleetingly, a few moments of respite from the reality of home where the language of guns and pain is fast becoming a common denominator of life for all.

It was a context, a charged atmosphere, which cried out for transformation, for a vision, something that took reality and said "It is like this, but it could be like this." And that vision was articulated in all sorts of memorable ways. The Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sir John Stevens, committed his officers to working ever more closely with communities to rid the city of the scourge of gun crime. The Home Secretary, David Blunkett, pledged the government's support. But as moving and important as were their words, something more was needed, something that could really open a doorway of hope. And it came quite simply in those parts of the service when the church did what it does best, when it did, in fact, what it's precisely called to do, which is to communicate the riches of its tradition in a way that enables people to face reality as it is, and to discern -- experience -- the reality that might be, once pain and violence begin to be transcended.

In this sense it was in the central axis of the service -- in the readings and the testimonies that followed them -- that the church rediscovered a new awareness of its self-understanding -- of its vocation -- and that others -- however churched or un-churched they were -- could locate the germ of an idea, the smallest glimpse of a possible way forward towards the hope all of us were seeking. We heard again those words of Isaiah: "They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more." And we listened to those challenging words of Jesus: "You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbour and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."

Bill Burns -- a police officer shot in the face in 1983 whilst trying to arrest two burglars -- and Steve Akorsa-Acquah, the man responsible for his injuries. . . over the years, Bill had come to forgive -- and to be reconciled with -- Steve, and Steve, himself, now released from prison, works in schools to ensure that our young people understand the human cost of such criminal activity.

But then we were shown how those words had already come true in the lives of Bill Burns -- a police officer shot in the face in 1983 whilst trying to arrest two burglars -- and Steve Akorsa-Acquah, the man responsible for his injuries, who had served a 20 year sentence for the shooting. For over the years, Bill had come to forgive -- and to be reconciled with -- Steve, and Steve, himself, now released from prison, works in schools to ensure that our young people understand the human cost of such criminal activity. Both men testified powerfully to the realities of forgiveness, reconciliation and transformation. And then we saw them walking together, helping the Home Secretary to move through the building with his guide dog. And as we did so, we all somehow knew that we were being taken to a different space, that we were beginning to see things as they could be, that the burning candles we were holding were symbolic lights on a way forward for us, because we had been put in touch with a deep sense that new things were possible, that the vision of life as we wanted it to be lived -- our dreams and hopes -- could indeed be realised. We were just a little closer to the reality of the God in whom all things are reconciled.

But we had only got to that visionary moment when the clouds part because the world and the church had met on equal terms, in the context of worship. Tradition had spoken into reality. Reality had rediscovered something that was always there but which people had begun to forget.

And it seems to me that if the prayers offered this past week have prompted us to sense again the importance of that unity, that ultimate reconciliation into which we are called, then let that be reflected not in further energy directed to the tortuous theological word-games on which so much ecumenism now appears to rest, and by which we suppose that we are piecing together the Christian jigsaw -- since those outside the churches, and even many in them, really no longer understand -- if they ever did -- what those games are all about. Please God, let the outcome of our praying not be that. Rather, let it come from the realisation that a church which actually listens to its tradition -- which rediscovers its heritage of worship and the possibilities within it -- precisely as it listens to and articulates the needs of the world, is a church that can unite people in the widest sense around a common vision. It is a church that can promote reconciliation: a church that can still change lives. Thanks be to God.

The Rev. Chris Chivers is Minor Canon and Precentor at Westminster Abbey. His regular column on "A Globe of Witnesses" is Tell It Slant. Chris may be reached by email at Chris.Chivers@westminster-abbey.org