The pitfalls of a higher standard

Time was when anyone who was or aspired to be a man of the cloth— and in less enlightened times it was always a man— anyone aspiring to the clerical collar had to know their Latin.  The mass was in Latin; matins and vespers and all the other daily devotions which were many, were in Latin; if anybody ever wrote you a letter or you had to send a note, it was in Latin; all books were in Latin; lectures were in Latin; papal bulls were in Latin; the Bible was in Latin. The menu down the local greasy spoon was in Latin. You had to know your Latin.

Nowadays, even for Roman Catholic clergy, and certainly for Anglicans, knowledge of the lingua franca of the long defunct Western Roman Empire is optional. You’ll pick up an odd phrase here or there through repetition or doing something similar in English most of the time- Agnus Dei or Sanctus for instance. Gloria in egg shell cease!— choirs need to know how to pronounce it to sing it, though Julius Caesar would almost certainly wonder what language the cherubi were singing if he woke from his big sleep and tottered into Vespers. That said, cleric or chorister you don’t need to know Latin, and unless you have a particularly niche job in the classics, an obscure post in the Vatican or are a politician seeking to distract attention from your lack of talent and morality by sounding posh, it’s not worth the bother learning the lingo. Despite its increasing popularity as a school subject, Latin lessons are a rather pointless exercise in learning, like woodwork or religious studies.

Even in the twenty-first century, however, there is one phrase of Latin that all clergy, catholic or  protestant, orthodox or anglican, deacon, priest or bishop should know, and, further, should intone at least once a day. Just the once, just the one phrase. To make it easier for those who don’t know their declensions from their delusions, it is one of those bits of the long dead language like tempus fugit, ad lib or carpe diem that are still alive and well  and have been , after a fashion, naturalised uncooked so to speak into English usage. That essential if unpopular phrase is,  mea culpa. Translated, itmeans something along the lines of ‘through my fault’ or ‘I am guilty’. 

The phrase has come to us not through the writings of some ancient general fresh from butchering the barbarians of Gaul– admitting guilt was decidedly un-Roman- Instead mea culpa comes to us from the Confiteor Deo— the confession said at the start of the Latin Mass. Not the sort of Latin they seem to teach at Eton. Mea culpa also has a sort of liturgical sign language equivalent: if you’re eagle eyed you may have noticed at the confession or during the Agnus Dei, a priest surreptitiously and usually gently beating their breast or if it’s the bishop come to visit, bashing their radio mic.

Mea culpa: a reminder of our frailty and weakness, our all too human tendency to mess things up. Although it can end up just autopilot routine like all the other prescribed movements of the mass, the little ecclesiastical hand jive is to remind the priest of their fallibility, important in the middle of the eucharist when they could mistake the fact that they are standing in the place of Christ for some sort of personal prestige. Also to remind those people who are not priests and are still paying attention that the person in the posh frock up front is one of the flock, a sheep not the shepherd, albeit a sheep with a microphone. 

This is good practice. As people of faith we tend to project our hopes and expectations, our disappointments and (less frequent it has to be said) triumphs onto the people we call our pastors or leaders, whether that’s the humble parish priest we sit in front of every Sunday morning/evening or the exalted bishop we cower in front of on those occasions, mercifully few and far between, when he remembers you exist.  All part of that package, we expect better of the woman in the dog collar, nay we insist it. And down the insidious slippery slope we go, because if we insist that clergy are held to a higher standard than the laos, (Greek not Latin- the Latin is plebs and I’m sure you don’t want to be called that) insist on them being better and  it’s easy to start to think that clergy are of a higher standard (not in this parish  obviously) and then most pernicious of all, for clergy themselves to believe it.

Just in case your mind is running away with you, don’t worry, this isn’t leading up to some revelation from the pulpit of terrible misconduct from your Rector— not this week at least. Mea culpa, yes, but I’m not  here today to wash dirty underwear in public.

If you’re less of a worrying kind and more of a cynical kind you might be thinking, well he can culpa all he wants, but what’s that got to do with me? There are a sum total of 1 clergy in this room right now, unless some of you are incognito in which case can you do some cover next summer. It’s not all about clergy you know, priesthood of all believers and all that, isn’t this all a bit, erm, technical. Well, yes and no (only Anglicans need apply!)  Because in the end the way we think about those in positions of spiritual or pastoral authority involves all of us, and here’s why.

First, if clergy are held to a higher standard and eventually thought to be at a higher level (again, I know, but it’s not an uncommonly held view, please suspend your disbelief)  if you think the cloth is holier than thou, then that sort of  lets everybody else off the hook. Who do you think I am: a vicar? Clergy are not there to be holy on your behalf; at best they are there to encourage you to be holy as you can— on your own behalf. 

When a priest is ordained it is a solemn service and though it is generally happy, for the hapless victims being priested, there is also a definitively scary bit which is this:

Remember always with thanksgiving that the treasure now to be entrusted to you is Christ’s own flock, bought by the shedding of his blood on the cross. It is to him that you will render account for your stewardship of his people

It certainly scared me. I didn’t realise quite how scary that charge is till I came to Beddington…

But. Though this puts your priest on the hook; it doesn’t let you off it. As the psalm says:

No one can indeed ransom another or pay to God the price of deliverance.

That’s the first thing: it’s not all about them: it’s all about you.

Second. Christians form communities. We always have done, always will do. St Paul was anatomical about it when telling the church in Corinth about itself:

The body does not consist of one member but of many…. If all were a single member, where would the body be? As it is, there are many members, yet one body.

Which means we are all in this together, we are all connected and what affects one part eventually affects the rest. Bear with me.

The Protestant Reformation, of which we are heirs in the Church of England was insistent that clergy were not a race apart, nowt special about a cassock. And yet, ministers were also expected to set an example, to be paragons of virtue.  All well and good. But what happens when they fail, as inevitably they will?  Either people become disillusioned when they see that the plaster saint is flesh and blood after all, or those put on a pedestal end up building up a facade,  falling victim to hypocrisy, deceitfulness and dissembling and being very good at not getting caught. You wouldn’t expect it of church people, but you should.

In recent decades the church has panicked about declining attendance and become so obsessed with ‘growth’ that all sorts of abusive behaviour has not been seen for what it is because of a toxic combination of it being in church and happening in churches with  all the trappings of ‘success’. Almost certainly this  has not been done knowingly, but success can encourage a sort of careless obliviousness: nobody wants to listen to a whistleblower when the goose is still laying the golden eggs, nobody wants to say the emperor has no clothes when we’re getting fat from his success, especially if he’s one of us, not one of them. It’s not a new story of course, and it’s easy to become caught up in the masquerade. But. We can, should, must do better.

It would be better for you if a millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea than for you to cause one of these little ones to stumble.

The solution? 

I would be more than arrogant to claim I have the answer. But I think the start of the search for it is written in Latin.

Mea culpa, tua culpa, nostra culpa.

My fault, your fault, our fault.

We are not terrible people. But we are imperfect. 

Sometimes we feel powerless, that we can change nothing, the world is spiralling out of control and without a doubt out of our control. But each of us plays their part for good or evil and usually both: each of us bears a responsibility for the small corner of the world we inhabit and for each of us our actions and reactions affect ourselves and others, and of course, we are not ourselves without the actions of and connections with, others.

Sheep are herd animals, we are herd animals, because there is safety in numbers and life is better together. In this lonely world of wolves we need a Good Shepherd, and though there are many flocks, there is but one Shepherd. When he speaks, all understand. We must learn to listen for his voice and his only.