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Every so often, in a discussion of the Episcopal Church's autonomy within the Anglican Communion, one hears the question: Why is this church involved with a leadership based in England? After all, didn't we "dissolve the political bands," as the phrase is in the Declaration of Independence, 232 years ago?
One might answer: go to Canterbury and go to the cathedral. The Lambeth Conference's magnificent opening and poignant closing services were held there, as was a two-and-a-half day retreat before the gathering's official start.
Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams led the retreat doing what, by all accounts, he excels at -- providing fresh theological and spiritual perspective on biblical texts and matters of faith. He gave several addresses to the bishops and when, just after the retreat, he told them he was sorry they had to hear from him yet again, they gave him a standing ovation.
Although some bishops complained that there was a bit too much moving around and chatting during the supposedly contemplative parts of the retreat, they were overwhelmingly enthusiastic about beginning the conference in this manner. Williams himself modestly said that "the cathedral did most of the work," but it wasn't just a turn of phrase.
There are cathedrals all over Europe -- all over England -- and it is no slight to any of them to say that Canterbury Cathedral is a special place. They are all meant to be awe-inspiring buildings, but Canterbury adds a sense of enveloping warmth and of quite specific Anglican history.
It might be hard to fathom a building that stands ten stories and covers several acres as being "warm," however Canterbury's sand-colored stone and three stories of stained and clear glass are remarkably pleasing to the eye. When, upon entering, one inevitably looks up, one sees under the fan-vaulted ceiling a number of harmonious arches and balconies that seem to bring the nether reaches of the building closer to the viewer.
Like Chaucer's 14th-century pilgrims, who on horseback brought their own tales to Canterbury, Lambeth Conference participants (by more modern conveyances and from greater distances) made the journey that was historic even in Chaucer's time.
Much of today's building is relatively "modern," about 600 years old, but its history began in 597 A.D. when St. Augustine at the behest of Pope Gregory the Great arrived with 40 monks, built a church and nurtured Christianity on the soil of Britain.
Canterbury became a significant stop on the pilgrim route to Rome, and in 1170 an event occurred that transformed it into a shrine. Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Becket was murdered by four knights acting, they thought, on the desires of King Henry II. Four years later, Henry himself, wearing sackcloth, was at the altar being beaten by monks as penance for the deed.
When the current archbishop (the 104th) led retreat and worship, he wasn't far from the spot where one of his predecessors embodied a clash between spiritual and temporal power.
The conflicts roiling today's Anglican Communion were present at the conference, but the most valuable contribution Canterbury and the cathedral brought was a sense of perspective. The disagreements are just as real and just as serious as they were 500 or 1000 years ago, but the church as the body of Christ survives and the physical places of Canterbury transmit an awareness that we who are alive today continue to tell the great story of humanity's encounter with the divine. For Anglicans, for Episcopalians, it's not a bad heritage to share.
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