Bishop Michael Curry and a Rather Large Jesus Movement
Going by the attendance, you would never think Western
Christianity was in any kind of trouble. I join a long queue snaking round the
north face of St Paul's Cathedral and another twenty or so join behind me
within minutes. Eventbrite has warned me that over 1,800 will be turning out to
see the American clergyman who stole the show at the royal wedding of Prince
Harry and Miss Meghan Markle, and boy, have they turned up. The crowd is
everything the Church of England would want to see at any of their churches:
racially diverse, a mean age closer to 30 than 70, spiritually engaged (there
is a monk behind me with long strawberry-blonde hair and a striking blue
cassock) and - if I haven't made it clear already - big.
Proportionately there must be a significant portion of this audience - congregation? - who are not regular churchgoers. But who can blame them? Archbishop Michael Curry's homily appeared like a bolt from the blue during last year's big ceremony, seizing his moment on the world stage to preach his understanding of radical Christian love. His very presence at once summoned a sense of ages past and present entwining: the alternately soaring and soothing rhythms of the black sermonic tradition; the simplicity of Christ's message that echoes down the millennia; the recruitment of fire as primeval metaphor for divine love; all conspired with the sensational newness of their apparition in the hallowed sanctum of St George's Chapel, a penny toss from where sat everyone who counts for anything in the British royal family. As tonight's session opens, St Paul's Canon Chancellor, Paula Gooder opens with an anecdote that captures the moment; she walked into her home with the TV on some minutes into Archbishop Curry's address and was greeted by her teenage daughter uncharacteristically brimming with enthusiasm for this "absolutely amazing" sermon. There appears to be an additional compliment implied in the fact that Gooder had been an avid follower of Curry's work for many years but failed to pass on this fascination to her progeny. It took the man himself to do that.
After Gooder's introduction, Bishop Curry rises and begins. Anyone hoping for immediate throes of rapture is soon hit by the humdrum barrier of technical difficulty. Nothing major, but the Archbishop's mic initially doesn't seem to be well-aligned causing him to compete with his own echo. However his charm and engagement instantly become allies in any struggle to understand what's being said, and I for one hear every word, albeit with some effort. Later, as he builds into his emotional, intoned crescendo the echo itself is turned to the good, as it creates a Ghostly affirmation of the Bishop's words in Wren's great hollow.
In typical African-American preaching style, he begins calmly, conversationally and at this point is indistinguishable from any Anglican cleric in the land. "Please thank your daughter from me!" he says directly to Paula, before continuing in the maternal vein, describing his pleasure at touching base in the Mother Church: "It's always good to come home to Momma for dinner!" Those of us who hand-wring over the fate of the dear old CofE tend to be heartened by the reminder that it is still the spiritual heart of a global network of witness, however fractious.
Curry invites us back to the basics: to "reclaim our origins - our deepest origins - as not simply the Church, but as the Jesus Movement!" The Church will retain her place in the Movement, but it is must be one that serves "His cause, not our cause". In keeping with the tradition, there is the invocation of the struggle for justice, but in keeping with the urgency of the cry it is not the ancestors singing in the sugar-fields of Balm in Gilead but the campaigners in Charlottesville, Virginia who have our attention. Curry lauds the former Bishop of Virginia’s summoning of an eclectic “presence in the name of love” in the face of hatred on the march, and, on joining them, recalls his realisation that the tiki-torch-bearing neo-Nazis and Klansmen were marching directly towards the local Episcopal church, where an interfaith service was being held. Slavery does feature, but paradoxically as a device to further prove the point about the love of Jesus: research into 19th century pamphlets for and against the hideous institution predictably reveal that the latter have a monopoly on mentions of the Lamb of God, while the former avoid Him “like the plague”.
All through this, everything is getting bigger: the gesticulation become sweeping movements of the arms, the vowel sounds become musically elongated and his excitement has gone from a wry twinkle to an outpouring of mirth. Flirting with mischief given the venue, he defends “poor St Paul” who “gets a bad rap…” but is “alright with me”, the controversies being down to distortion.
But it is Jesus alone that drives him to the oratorical heights. In the climax of the performance, the story of the scribe asking him about the commandments – one I have heard told so many times and so blandly – is given a glittering rhetorical makeover. We hear the words afresh: “On these two – love of God, and love of neighbour – hang all the law, and the Prophets” and his final analysis is belted out with all the praise his lungs can muster: “If you wanna know what the Bible is about, it is about LOVE!...Love God, love your neighbour, and while you’re at it, love yourself.”
Finally, it is time to calm his own perfect storm-in-a-pulpit and he dials the volume from joyous shout “The One who is the Lord God Almighty, condescended from the realms of eternity” to convicted gaze-locking regular speech “to call you…” to a whisper “…and you…and you, and an itty-bitty baby…to call us into being”.
“Love the Lord your God” the Bishops reiterates. It doesn’t mean we have to always agree with Him by the way. After all, says he, “I love my wife”.
Proportionately there must be a significant portion of this audience - congregation? - who are not regular churchgoers. But who can blame them? Archbishop Michael Curry's homily appeared like a bolt from the blue during last year's big ceremony, seizing his moment on the world stage to preach his understanding of radical Christian love. His very presence at once summoned a sense of ages past and present entwining: the alternately soaring and soothing rhythms of the black sermonic tradition; the simplicity of Christ's message that echoes down the millennia; the recruitment of fire as primeval metaphor for divine love; all conspired with the sensational newness of their apparition in the hallowed sanctum of St George's Chapel, a penny toss from where sat everyone who counts for anything in the British royal family. As tonight's session opens, St Paul's Canon Chancellor, Paula Gooder opens with an anecdote that captures the moment; she walked into her home with the TV on some minutes into Archbishop Curry's address and was greeted by her teenage daughter uncharacteristically brimming with enthusiasm for this "absolutely amazing" sermon. There appears to be an additional compliment implied in the fact that Gooder had been an avid follower of Curry's work for many years but failed to pass on this fascination to her progeny. It took the man himself to do that.
After Gooder's introduction, Bishop Curry rises and begins. Anyone hoping for immediate throes of rapture is soon hit by the humdrum barrier of technical difficulty. Nothing major, but the Archbishop's mic initially doesn't seem to be well-aligned causing him to compete with his own echo. However his charm and engagement instantly become allies in any struggle to understand what's being said, and I for one hear every word, albeit with some effort. Later, as he builds into his emotional, intoned crescendo the echo itself is turned to the good, as it creates a Ghostly affirmation of the Bishop's words in Wren's great hollow.
In typical African-American preaching style, he begins calmly, conversationally and at this point is indistinguishable from any Anglican cleric in the land. "Please thank your daughter from me!" he says directly to Paula, before continuing in the maternal vein, describing his pleasure at touching base in the Mother Church: "It's always good to come home to Momma for dinner!" Those of us who hand-wring over the fate of the dear old CofE tend to be heartened by the reminder that it is still the spiritual heart of a global network of witness, however fractious.
Curry invites us back to the basics: to "reclaim our origins - our deepest origins - as not simply the Church, but as the Jesus Movement!" The Church will retain her place in the Movement, but it is must be one that serves "His cause, not our cause". In keeping with the tradition, there is the invocation of the struggle for justice, but in keeping with the urgency of the cry it is not the ancestors singing in the sugar-fields of Balm in Gilead but the campaigners in Charlottesville, Virginia who have our attention. Curry lauds the former Bishop of Virginia’s summoning of an eclectic “presence in the name of love” in the face of hatred on the march, and, on joining them, recalls his realisation that the tiki-torch-bearing neo-Nazis and Klansmen were marching directly towards the local Episcopal church, where an interfaith service was being held. Slavery does feature, but paradoxically as a device to further prove the point about the love of Jesus: research into 19th century pamphlets for and against the hideous institution predictably reveal that the latter have a monopoly on mentions of the Lamb of God, while the former avoid Him “like the plague”.
All through this, everything is getting bigger: the gesticulation become sweeping movements of the arms, the vowel sounds become musically elongated and his excitement has gone from a wry twinkle to an outpouring of mirth. Flirting with mischief given the venue, he defends “poor St Paul” who “gets a bad rap…” but is “alright with me”, the controversies being down to distortion.
But it is Jesus alone that drives him to the oratorical heights. In the climax of the performance, the story of the scribe asking him about the commandments – one I have heard told so many times and so blandly – is given a glittering rhetorical makeover. We hear the words afresh: “On these two – love of God, and love of neighbour – hang all the law, and the Prophets” and his final analysis is belted out with all the praise his lungs can muster: “If you wanna know what the Bible is about, it is about LOVE!...Love God, love your neighbour, and while you’re at it, love yourself.”
Finally, it is time to calm his own perfect storm-in-a-pulpit and he dials the volume from joyous shout “The One who is the Lord God Almighty, condescended from the realms of eternity” to convicted gaze-locking regular speech “to call you…” to a whisper “…and you…and you, and an itty-bitty baby…to call us into being”.
“Love the Lord your God” the Bishops reiterates. It doesn’t mean we have to always agree with Him by the way. After all, says he, “I love my wife”.
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