I never know who or what I might encounter when I get the phone call from the fishbowl, the receptionist and hear the words, “there’s someone here who wants to talk to the pastor.” Well, I know a couple of things. Whoever it is, isn’t Episcopalian. And I also know that whatever their problem is, it’s likely I can’t do much to help. Usually, it’s a request for money for rent or utilities, or bus fare. Occasionally, they just want to talk, like the guy a few months ago whose lead question was something about human nature. Then there are those who have really serious problems.

In the past six months, I’ve had at least two people who came to see me because they were convinced they had been bewitched by former partners. A man complained that his ex-wife had cast a spell on him so he couldn’t begin a relationship with any woman; while a woman told me that her boyfriend had put some sort of evil substance on her and all of her clothes that was allowing the devil to possess her. In fact, she wanted me to get her new clothes that were unaffected by her boyfriend’s evil curse.

I tell you these stories, not to give you a sense of how interesting my job is—that it is, but because our tendency when we read stories of demonic possession in scripture is too approach them as fairy tales, as vestiges of vastly different, less-developed culture. We know better. People who think they are possessed by the devil or that someone has cursed them are probably mentally ill. They need medication and therapy, not exorcism.

That’s our worldview, but that’s not the world view of scripture. That’s not the worldview of the author of the gospel of Mark, who includes the presence of the demonic at the very beginning of his story of Jesus. Let me recap for you. Here’s what’s in chapter 1 of Mark. First comes John the Baptizer, preaching repentance of sins. He baptizes Jesus, who hears the voice from heaven telling him that he is God’s Son, the Beloved. Then the “spirit” drives Jesus out into the wilderness, where he is tempted by Satan.

After John is arrested, Jesus begins his own public ministry, and Mark makes clear that the content of his preaching is in continuity with what John had to say: “the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent and believe the good news. Next, Jesus calls his disciples, at least Peter and Andrew, James and John.

With this in mind, we come to today’s gospel, the first miracle story in the gospel of Mark. It’s doubly strange for us—miracle stories are always problematic for us in the twenty-first century. This one is especially strange, though, because it is an exorcism, Jesus’ casting a demon out of a possessed man. The fact of the matter is, what makes this story strange is neither of those things. What’s odd about this story, indeed what’s odd about almost all of Mark’s miracle stories is how they are used and interpreted.

Strange as they are, we think miracle stories are supposed to be comforting or reassuring. We often imagine that if only we saw clear evidence of a miracle, then we, and everyone else would believe in Jesus Christ. We think that on that level, Jesus’ disciples had it easier than we do. Man, Jesus performed this really cool exorcism—he’s gotta be the Son of God. But that’s not the way Mark uses this story.

The miracle, as important as it is, is used by Mark to underscore a point he has already made. Jesus enters the synagogue and begins teaching. Mark reports, “They were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one with authority.” And after the exorcism, Mark writes, that they were all amazed and asked, “What is this? A new teaching—with authority. He commands even the unclean spirits and they obey him.”

There is one other element in this story that deserves mention. The English translation obscures this somewhat, but three times, the Greek word immediately is repeated—in v. 21, it should read, immediately he entered the synagogue; in v. 23, just then, should read immediately, and then in v. 28, instead of “at once” we should read “immediately.” There might be aesthetic reasons for the translators’ reaching to synonyms in this passage, but in fact, immediately is one of the most common words in the gospel of Mark, and its repetition underscores the urgency with which the gospel writer is telling his story. There’s no dawdling, no wasted breath, or words, or time in this gospel. Jesus rushes from one episode to the next, and we rush with him because of the urgency of the good news that is being proclaimed.

Why the haste? Why the urgency? Because for Mark, this message is of utmost importance, the proclamation, “the kingdom of God has come near, repent and believe the good news” is itself of utmost importance. But there’s more. It’s pretty clear that as Mark constructs this first chapter, this synopsis of Jesus’ proclamation is filled out, given content by the miracles that Jesus’ performs. He heals the sick and casts out demons. You want to know what the Kingdom of God looks like? That’s what it looks like.

But still, we may wonder about this exorcism, this unclean spirit that Jesus casts out. There’s another structural element in Mark that may provide a clue to its meaning. When Jesus is baptized, Mark says that “the spirit descended on him like a dove.” There are two spirits in this chapter: The Holy Spirit that fills Jesus and empowers him for ministry, and this evil spirit that incapacitates the man in the synagogue. Two spirits, one that empowers, and one that debilitates. Two spirits, one that enables the coming of God’s reign and one that would prevent it.

In casting out the demon, Jesus spoke with authority just as he spoke with authority when he preached in the synagogue, and as he preached in the towns of Galilee. He taught with authority and introduced the Reign of God. Perhaps the most difficult thing in this passage for us to understand is not in fact the presence of a demon or spirit in someone. Perhaps the most difficult thing for us to understand is the opposite spirit, the opposing power, the power of God’s kingdom.

We are so focused on the struggles of daily life, the worries of whether we can make ends meet, or whether our kids are doing well enough in school, or indeed if we are doing well enough in school. We worry about today, tomorrow, the future. We worry about our health, the economy, the state of the world. We are caught up in the mundane matters of life in the twenty-first century. And we come to church, out of routine, but sometimes with the hope that something will break us out of this ho-hum existence.

I sometimes wonder whether the reason we find it so hard to believe in things like demons or evil spirits, is because we can’t or don’t believe in the power of the Holy Spirit, or of God. We don’t believe in God’s power to change our lives or the world. We don’t really believe in the good news of the Kingdom of God.

Maybe some of you are thinking, Well, Grieser, show me God’s power! Cast out an evil spirit, right here, right now. Then I’ll believe. But that’s precisely the wrong way to look at it. For the gospel of Mark, miracles do not create faith in Jesus Christ. Note the response Mark describes: They were astounded at his teaching, amazed by his power to cast out demons, and then, and his fame, or report, we might say word of him spread into the countryside. There’s nothing here about faith—not the faith of the one who is possessed, the faith of onlookers. There is power. That’s what miracles do, demonstrate power—and we will reading through the gospel of Mark, the power of miracles provides misleading clues to the power of God’s reign.

But still, where does that leave us? With an event that took place two thousand years ago, that may or may not be believable? Perhaps, but it also leaves us with the possibility that the important question does not have to do with the power of God, or the power of God’s reign. Rather, the important question is whether we can see and understand God’s power working in the world, God’s power working in us. In this season of Epiphany, as we reflect on God’s presence in our world, a presence made manifest in Jesus Christ, let us look for signs of God’s presence around us and in us, that we might recognize the coming of God’s reign, and dispel the gloom and darkness in the world.

There was a stark portrayal of the extent of decline by Kirk Hadaway. The full presentation is available here: ExecCncl_012712_FINAL

There’s a great deal to digest in this report, including a decline in membership from over 2.4 million in 1992 to under 2 million today. And this, between 2002 and 2010:

• Change in church school enrollment: -33%
• Change in number of marriages performed: -41%
• Change in number of burials/funerals: -21%
• Change in the number of child baptisms: -36%
• Change in the number of adult baptisms: -40%
• Change in the number of confirmations: -32%

Even more scary, for every church that was started between 1999 and 2009, 2.5 closed. There are maps of the country that show the relative growth and decline among dioceses, comparisons with other mainline denominations (and even the Southern Baptist Convention, which has seen membership decline for the first time in recent years).

But there are other ways to parse that data, and larger issues, as well. I read an article yesterday about America’s permanent dead zones, defined by the authors as areas where the unemployment rate has been at least 2% above the national average for the last 5, 10, or 20 years. It’s a fascinating read, and it would be interesting to compare the geography of the dead zones with the areas of decline in the Episcopal Church. For example, among the towns listed as dead zones are a series of towns in the Diocese of Upper South Carolina–Gaffney, Greenwood, Union, Chester, Lancaster, Seneca, Sumter. Some of these towns have thriving Episcopal churches; others don’t. By contrast, not a single city in that diocese is included in the list of prosperous zones. The diocese of Milwaukee seems not to have any dead zones, and Madison is listed as a prosperous zone. My question is: to what extent is growth in the Episcopal Church linked to those “prosperous zones”?

Here’s today’s report from Executive Council, contributed by Episcopal News Service.

If this is any indication, it’s going to be an interesting few months leading up to General Convention.

At Starbucks I meet up with students who participated in the SYAP prayers at Bradley High School, another public school in Cleveland. “Everybody basically bumps into us on their way into the school building,” says a boy with a wide, freckled smile, “so almost every kid in the school joined in.”

 

I ask a curly-haired girl, a participant over the past several years, how she heard about the event. “Sometimes they make an announcement during lunch,” she says. “Sometimes your teachers tell you about it.”

As L. Gregory Jones and Benjamin McNutt write:

Too often we Christians tend to think of the church’s service efforts as outreach (emphasis on “out”) — the extra activities we do in addition to being regular, everyday Christians who worship the triune God in communities of discipleship.

Thankfully the New Testament reminds us that the early church believed provision for the widow and the orphan, the sick and the poor, was not simply an extension of the church’s mission but at its core.

Are worship, coffee hour, even Christian formation part of our outreach efforts? Should they be? A couple of months ago, a piece written by Mike Rinehart, Bishop of the Gulf Coast Synod of the ELCA, made the rounds. Reflecting on decline among mainline denominations, Rinehart called for a new focus on outsiders. He wrote:

So here’s the plan. New policy. Every decision, every single decision made by staff, council and every committee is made on behalf of those not yet here. Every sermon choice, every hymn, song and musical choice, every building and grounds choice, every spending choice is made with outsiders in mind.

When we become a church for the world, the outsider, when the pain of staying the same (and dying of irrelevance) for those already here exceeds the pain of changing (and sacrificing old ways) for those not yet here, we will be the church for which God incarnate came to this earth and gave his life.

In his view, everything we do in a church is or should be about outreach, in the sense that our focus should not be on ourselves, but on those beyond the doors of our buildings.

Today, I read an article about the closure of Hull House, the famous settlement house founded by Jane Addams. An article in The Nation attributes its demise to its reliance on government funding. With the cutbacks of the last decades, it simply couldn’t make ends meet, or raise enough private money to balance its budget.

But government funded social service was not how Hull House began. It started out as a place where, in an age of enormous economic inequality, people of different classes lived together, and came together to work and socialize.

Louise Knight, the author of the article, wonders whether there is something in the Settlement House model that deserves reviving:

Today, we have all kinds of nonprofits, including non-residential settlement houses, foundations, religious organizations, and research, government and university programs focused on solving (or sometimes studying) particular social injustices. To inform us of these efforts we can turn to a rich array of magazines, newspapers, websites, books, TV and radio shows, and documentaries. Thus we have a situation in which specialists are doing the work while the rest of us read and listen to words upon words about what they are doing. But learning about these entirely worthwhile efforts does not transform us because we encounter them only through our minds. Our bodies stay in our chairs.We make no human connections, except at an imaginary remove.

Addams was so successful in raising private dollars to fund all of Hull House’s work because of her skill in connecting donors to the life of Hull House. Donors were often there as guests at dinner, as volunteers, as attendees at lectures, concerts, and plays (mostly involving people from the neighborhood). Not all nonprofits can offer their donors such opportunities for connection, and others could but do not encourage it.

Is the original settlement house method—having every day citizens of one socio-economic class live among those of another—a legacy that we should bring back to life? We may or may not need to such places, though I admit I would like to see the model tried again. But we could benefit from finding new ways, in Addams’s words, to come together “on the common road.”

It seems to me that in the first paragraph quoted above, she is describing the way we often think of outreach in churches:

Thus we have a situation in which specialists are doing the work while the rest of us read and listen to words upon words about what they are doing. But learning about these entirely worthwhile efforts does not transform us because we encounter them only through our minds. Our bodies stay in our chairs.We make no human connections, except at an imaginary remove.

But in fact, our churches, especially urban churches, are places where people of diverse backgrounds and socioeconomic status come together regularly to worship and to share together in the life of the body of Christ. We are places where a millionaire might kneel next to a homeless person at the altar rail, or share coffee and community at coffee hour. Being more intentional about that is outreach, too.

I went downstairs to take a look. Indeed, it looked much like a sauna. I called the HVAC company, but it was five minutes before the start of the 10:00 service, and I had other things on my mind. Just before the beginning of service, I saw one of our members who works as a carpenter and asked him to investigate. After the service, after greeting visitors, doing adult forum with newcomers, Eucharist with our Hispanic congregation, I made my way back to the Guild Hall and to the kitchen. Things were somewhat in order. The leak was stopped; the closet had been cleared. Corrie, having had a sauna, was wearing a shirt borrowed from the sexton. But there were things I had missed.

Apparently, disrupted by the water and the removal of everything from the closet was a hibernating bat. There was a conniption. Kitchen tongs were involved,wielded by the organist. But fortunately, Grace’s usual weapon against bats, a tennis racket, was not implemented. The bat was taken out of doors. Whether it survives, we don’t know. Although reports are that it flew away. Perhaps it’s now in the bell tower.

As our sexton went in the closet to check on things after the bat, our organist suggested that there might be a coyote there as well. Who knows?

Hospitality means many things, but I don’t think it means welcoming the bat and the coyote.

“I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Mt 25:35)

In the great parable of the Last Judgment that Jesus relates in Matthew 25:31-46, when the king separates righteous from the unrighteous, he proclaims to those who are saved that  “just as you did it to one of the least of these… you did it to me.” Among the actions cited is welcoming the stranger.

Each Sunday, we encounter the stranger as we come to worship God. Each Sunday, at each of our services, there are strangers. Sometimes, they are visitors from afar, traveling to Madison for business or pleasure, and choosing to spend their Sunday morning with us. Sometimes, they are local residents who are “church-shopping.” Occasionally, there is someone who has come this day because of some deep spiritual longing that yearns to be met. Some of those strangers are not newcomers. They have attended services before, several times, for several years, perhaps even for several decades. We may recognize their faces, we may have seen them dozens of times, but we don’t know their names let alone anything else about them.

In this, Grace is like most churches. In fact, in many respects, we do better than many churches. We offer visitors delightful visitors’ bags; some of us are aware of visitors and make sure to introduce themselves; in nice weather, I like to stand on the sidewalk before services, to welcome everyone who comes, and to greet passers-by as well. But we could do better.

A couple of months ago, I met a visiting priest, who responded to the email I send to everyone who signs our guestbook with a description of his experience. No one welcomed him. At the peace, he received perfunctory handshakes from those around him, and after the service, I was the only person who greeted him and asked him his name. How many others have had similar experiences? How many people have come to Grace, looking to connect not only with God but with other people, and went home disappointed?

“I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” Do you know that person who is sitting in the pew in front of you? Have you seen them before? Have you seen them dozens of times and still don’t know their name? Introduce yourself. Invite them to coffee hour. Welcome them.

Welcoming newcomers is one of the things we focused on in our Vestry retreat this past Saturday and we agreed that it will be one of the areas that will receive attention at Grace in the coming year. How can we be more welcoming as a congregation? How can our physical space be made more welcoming? How can we help newcomers become active in the life of our congregation and active in our ministries? We will explore these questions and others. We hope you will share your ideas with us and learn with us how to make Grace a truly welcoming congregation.

Someone asked me after service yesterday if I had ever preached on the text from I Corinthians that was read yesterday (last week’s readings). In fact, three years ago, my sermon focused on the urgency of the good news as evidenced in both the gospel and in I Corinthians 7. But my questioner wasn’t interested in that part of the sentence: “The appointed time has grown short”–he was interested in the second part of that sentence, “let even those who have wives be as though they had none…”

No, I’ve never preached on that particular text, but in fact this whole passage is strong evidence for the difficulty of applying what Paul has to say about the Christian life–ethics and morality–to the lives of twenty-first century Christians. He assumes that the parousia, Jesus’ return, is imminent. It might happen any day now. That fact changed everything for him. Earlier in chapter 7, Paul says some things that are quite difficult for us to hear, about slavery and marriage, but all of it should be read in light of the imminent second coming. Because Jesus is coming back soon, nothing else really matters, and there’s no reason to make big changes in one’s life, like getting married. Now, few of us believe that Jesus is coming back soon, so we should probably not take what Paul has to say about slavery or marriage in this passage very seriously.

On the other hand, there are certain principles that can guide one’s ethical decision-making in light of Paul. And in this week’s reading from I Corinthians 8, we see one of those principles in action. In a way, it’s helpful that he is discussing an issue that is far from our ordinary experience–eating food that’s been offered to idols.

The issue here is that it was customary for meat left over from pagan sacrifices to be used for celebratory meals, and for most people in the Hellenistic world, such meals, sponsored by wealthy patrons, might be their only regular access to meat. The question the Corinthians had asked Paul was whether, given their new faith in Jesus Christ, and the assurance that their was only one God (and thus the pagan sacrifices were of no avail and meaningless), they could continue to participate in those feasts. It had caused division, because some of those in the Corinthian community were not quite sure whether pagan gods existed and had power, and perceived participation in such meals as evil.

Paul’s answer is instructive: “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up.” It’s quite clear from reading I Corinthians that one of the central problems in this community is the issue of how far one can take the “freedom in Christ” that is gained through faith and baptism. Free from law, ie, Jewish Torah? Paul agrees. Free from laws (ie, civil or natural law)? Paul’s not so sure. And what about one’s responsibility to the community, the body of Christ? “Take care that this liberty of yours does not somehow become a stumbling block to the weak” (I Cor. 8:9). So Paul concludes this discussion by saying, “Therefore, if food is a cause of their falling, I will never eat meat, so that I may not cause one of them to fall” (I Cor. 8:13).

This seems pretty straightforward. One’s own actions and freedom should be tempered by concern for the tender consciences of others. Indeed, this argument is used in contemporary conflicts to argue against certain changes. It can easily become a block to the ongoing discernment of God’s will, but I think there’s some validity in paying close attention to it. What builds up the body of Christ? What undermines it? How do we go about discerning how we should live as individuals and as congregations in the twenty-first century? One clear answer to that from a Pauline, indeed a Christian perspective, is that we are not isolated moral agents, individuals who can decide for ourselves what is right and wrong. Ultimately, if we claim allegiance to Jesus Christ, such decisions must be made in light of their impact on those with whom we share Eucharistic fellowship.

We’re three weeks, four Sundays into a new year, and things are finally settling down. Winter has finally arrived, for better or worse, and now that the Packers have lost, we don’t need to be focusing our attention quite so closely on the NFL playoffs as we did, for example last year. We can begin to go about the business of the routine of the winter and of the Season of Epiphany.

One element of that routine, at least for those of us in Grace’s leadership, is to gather for a day or a day and half in a vestry retreat. We met yesterday—for those of who don’t speak Episcopalian, the vestry is the lay governing body of an Episcopal parish, equivalent to the church council or board of elders in other congregations. We did what we usually do at such meetings. We got to know each other—there are three new members, and with the departure of three people from the vestry and wardens we needed some time to begin to come together as a group, to learn how to work together.

We also did routine matters, like passing the budget for 2012. But most of our time was spent thinking about who we are as a parish and who God is calling us to be in this place. These are important questions that get at the heart of our mission and ministry. They are questions churches, organizations, even businesses ask of themselves in slightly different ways, and using different terminology.

I was struck by this fact a few weeks ago while reading online an essay entitled “Why should there be an Episcopal Church?” The author was asking the question about the national church, asking it in part because of long-term trends that point toward decline, and some uncertainty about whether the Episcopal Church has long-term future viability. It’s a question we should ask of ourselves: “Why should there be an Episcopal Church in this place—on Madison’s Capitol Square?” On one level, perhaps, the answer to that question is obvious. Well there’s always been one. But that’s not enough anymore. Why should there be a Grace Church now or ten years from now, or even a hundred years from now? What’s the point? What’s the reason for our existence?

Wrestling with that question means wrestling with the question: What is God’s call for us? And that question brings us to today’s lessons. The gospel story is another version of Jesus’ calling the disciples. Last week, we heard the Gospel of John’s take. This week, we’re back to Mark, and there are important differences that we might note. But instead of the Gospel, let’s talk about Jonah.

If you read my blog—and for those of you who don’t—it’s a place on-line where I comment on all kinds of things: everything from homelessness, to developments in Anglicanism, to trends in contemporary culture and religion. But each week, I try to begin the week with some comment about the coming Sunday’s lectionary texts. In any case, this week, I expressed my annoyance that over the three-year lectionary cycle, we only read twice from the Book of Jonah. What annoys me about this fact is that the story of Jonah is one of the most familiar stories in all of scripture. Frankly, it’s one of the best stories in scripture. So let’s start there.

What do you know about Jonah? Right, he was swallowed up by a whale. Why? Because God called him to go prophesy against the wickedness of the city of Nineveh. Instead of heeding that call, he took ship in the opposite direction. A storm came up and the sailors threw Jonah overboard to appease the wrath of God. This part of the story everyone knows well. He was swallowed up by a big fish and stayed in its stomach for three days. From the belly of the whale, Jonah prayed to God for deliverance, and after three days, he was spewed up on dry land.

God called Jonah a second time to go prophesy against the city of Nineveh, and this time he went. He prophesied its destruction, and miraculously, the people repented. When God saw their repentance, God changed God’s mind and relented. But this angered Jonah, who went out of the city and sulked.

This story presents the modern reader with many problems, the first being the impossibility of a whale, or a big fish swallowing a man whole, the man surviving for three days inside it, and then being spewed out. Then there’s Jonah’s prophetic activity itself. The text says that Nineveh was a large city; it was a three-day’s walk from one end to the other, and that when Jonah arrived, he walked a day into it, and there preached his message of doom and destruction. That’s all it took. One lone voice, and that of a foreigner, and the whole city, man and beast, put on sackcloth and ashes, and repent of their wickedness. It could happen, I suppose.

And if you were Jonah, how would you respond to this development? One would think he would be pleased with himself, proud of the effects of his preaching. But no. He complains to God, saying that the reason he didn’t want to go in the first place was because he knew this would happen. He knew God was a gracious God, full of mercy, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, ready to relent. In other words, if Jonah was going to prophesy doom and destruction, he wanted to see it happen.

So what should we make of all this? A prophet who doesn’t want to be a prophet, certainly doesn’t want to be a successful prophet and resists his call. On that level, we can understand the story all to well. We can imagine resisting the tug of duty and responsibility, turning away from what we know we ought to do. We can even imagine, most of us, sensing God calling us in a certain direction, calling us to deeper commitment, to a richer spiritual life, and turning away.

That’s all easy to imagine, and in that sense, Jonah represents us, everyman. But there’s more to the story than just Jonah. Besides Jonah and God, there’s another actor, or set of actors in the story, and that is Nineveh itself. Now, Nineveh was the heart of the Assyrian empire, one of the great empires of the ancient near east, and one of the most brutal. It was Assyria that destroyed the northern kingdom of Israel in the 8^th century bce. Nineveh was the evil empire. Its power dwarfed all of its neighbors, including the kingdom of Judah. That makes Jonah’s resistance to God’s call all the more understandable, even if that’s not the excuse Jonah gave himself.

In the end, the book of Jonah is not primarily about Jonah. It is about God. It is a story of God’s love, mercy, steadfast love. It is about proclaiming not just God’s displeasure and threatening destruction, it is about knowing who God is, and proclaiming that message of love, mercy, and steadfast love.

And that’s the message for us as well. Like Jonah, that is what God is calling us to, as individuals and as a congregation. The God who is calling us is not a God of wrath and destruction, no matter how much some Christians in our culture would have us and everyone else believe it. The God who calls us is unimaginable in the extent of the love, mercy, and patience God has. It is that God we have experienced ourselves in the forgiveness of our sins. It is that God we are called to share with a world that knows hate and fear and violence. It is that message, a message we know for ourselves, that we need to bring to those around us. That is our mission, that is our call. Let’s go out and do it!

Reflecting on this weird mix, Michael Kazin posits “The End of the Christian Right.” His argument is this: 1) They’ve lost the culture wars–support for gay marriage now tops 50%; 2) They lack the leadership of earlier generations (there’s no Jerry Falwell among the current crop); 3) most importantly, they are losing the demographic battle. Of course, he makes this argument while acknowledging the continuing potency of conservative Christians in the Republican primary fights.

Kazin has received some pushback. Ed Kilgore disagrees.

But if they haven’t been able to pull their muscle behind a single candidate, that’s not a sign that they are on the wane—it’s a sign that, as far as the Republican Party is concerned, they have already won.

Look at the potential nominees: Unlike 2008, no candidate in the field is pro-choice by any definition. Only Ron Paul seems reluctant to enact a national ban on same-sex marriage. Newt Gingrich, Rick Perry, Rick Santorum. and Herman Cain have been vocal in fanning the flames of Islamophobia; again, only Paul has bothered to dissent to any significant degree.

I’ve got no particular insight on this matter. But an image I came across on a Mother Jones blogpost strikes me as very interesting:

We may yet see new realignments, with closer cooperation among conservative Evangelicals and conservative Roman Catholics. It’s already taking place, of course. That evangelicals might have endorsed Santorum would have been unthinkable a generation ago (and is probably as difficult for many to swallow as voting for a Mormon). But what battles in the culture wars would an army led by the Roman Catholic bishops and supported by the American Family Association and the National Association for Evangelicals win?

It’s short, rather odd and a classic example of episcopal (i.e, of bishops, not of our church) fence-sitting:

18. We would, therefore, encourage an open-ended engagement with ACNA on the part of the Church of England and the Communion, while recognising that
the outcome is unlikely to be clear for some time yet, especially given the strong feelings on all sides of the debate in North America.

19. The Church of England remains fully committed to the Anglican Communion and to being in communion both with the Anglican Church of Canada and the Episcopal Church (TEC). In addition, the Synod motion has given Church of England affirmation to the desire of ACNA to remain in some sense within the Anglican family.

Just what is the ACNA? And in what way is it Anglican in structure and polity? Mark Harris goes through some of the jurisdictional quagmire that exists among the dissenting Anglican communities in North America here.

Of course the core problem is that ACNA, CANA, AMiA, ex Recife, all believe these interventions by Provinces in the jurisdiction of The Episcopal Church and the Anglican Church of Canada are “jurisdictional participation in a way that is fully Anglican.”

Where the hell did they get that idea?  One hopes not from Lambeth Palace, but if not there where?  Who knows?

But one thing is for sure. Who ever thought that propping up deposed bishops under new flags in jurisdictions already having Episcopal / Anglican oversight was “fully Anglican” was full of it.

If ACNA bishops are not in “jurisdictional participation in a way that is fully Anglican” well, the deck of cards begins to collapse. And they are not. Archbishop Duncan admits as much when he writes, “The present reality is brokenness. The vision, however, that governs our fledgling Province remains unchanged…”

ACNA is not yet a “province” of anything, no matter that the Episcopal Church in the Sudan recognizes it as and “orthodox” partner and the GAFCON / Global South folk considers ACNA a full fledged partner.  This is because not being a recognized province these bishops and people understand that to be “fully Anglican” they need to be under the jurisdiction of an existing Province.

AMiA bishops who have left Rwanda are clearly not under jurisdiction now. ACNA bishops in Fort Worth, Quincy, San Joaquin and Pittsburgh are not with the Southern Cone. If not there where are they?

Confused? Don’t worry. You should be. It’s all quite confusing. The structures and jurisdictional relationships of these various dissenting Anglican bodies have never been clarified, and in the last few months, things have gotten even more jumbled. That the Archbishops could have written a document concerning the relationship of the CoE to ACNA without addressing ACNA’s origins, history, and current status is mind-boggling.