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The Anglican Mug

I have a favorite mug. It’s nothing extraordinary to look at — a sturdy ceramic piece bearing the shield and name of St. Francis in the Fields in Harrods Creek, Kentucky (where I discovered good rye whisky and spent an afternoon with Wendell Berry). It was given to me during my week there as theologian in residence. Its green matte glaze is pleasing, the weight comfortable in my hand, but what makes it truly mine is not its appearance, but the daily work it does of containing the freshly brewed coffee that begins my mornings.

This mug, I’ve found, is the perfect size. It holds just enough for the pace at which I sip my coffee — neither too slowly, so the brew grows cold, nor too quickly, so I must rise too often to refill it. Oddly, though, I’ve never thought to use it for tea. That ritual belongs to a different mug, one adorned with illustrations from The Hobbit. My coffee mug, plain and functional, is not displayed on a shelf or kept in pristine condition. It’s simply there, doing its job, and I value it for that. Should it crack or fail, I would regret its loss, but I would also replace it without much fuss. After all, it is not the mug but the coffee I really love.

Perhaps it is strange to speak of a mug with such familiarity, but I would like to suggest that this relationship mirrors how many Anglicans approach their tradition. To more than a few clerics and theologians, our tradition isn’t treasured for its own sake but as a vessel — a means for holding and conveying something they deem of greater worth. That “something” might be the evangelical clarity of the Continental Reformation or the high aesthetic of Catholic worship stripped of Rome’s less palatable demands. Others see in Anglicanism a home for rationalist philosophy, Christian socialism, or even post-’60s Progressivism. The fact that this list could go on indefinitely only highlights Anglicanism’s peculiar openness to ideas and theologies that emerged elsewhere.

Unlike the Reformed churches on the Continent, Anglicanism didn’t begin as a singular theological vision. The English Reformers, for all their courage, were not creative innovators. Their work was largely one of adaptation, and a double adaptation for good measure. They reshaped the inherited medieval structures of parishes and dioceses while also molding different bits and pieces from the Reformation movements then sweeping much of Europe. Aside from a common polity and an oath to the monarchy, what held this unwieldy vessel together was Anglicanism’s singular gifts of practical and poetic ingenuity, a succession of prayer books, and the expectation, supported by law, that they would shape the nation’s corporate liturgical life.

The Anglican tradition, then, can be compared to my favorite mug. It’s a container, shaped by circumstance and designed for use. Throughout our history, theologians have extolled the virtues of our “ecclesiastical polity,” even while violently disagreeing about what it should contain. Too few have truly cherished Anglicanism for itself, if they could even describe what that is. They value it only as long as it serves their preferred brew, whether that be high-church ceremony, evangelical simplicity, or progressive utopianism.

I first became aware of this during my early days of delving into the works of various Anglican Divines. Right away I came up against the curious thing that most of our greatest theologians are relatively unknown and left largely unexplored. The names that should be touchstones — Latimer, Jewel, Hooker, Andrewes, Herbert, the Tractarians, Ryle, Maurice, Temple, Ramsey — are often neglected, even by Anglican scholars. A survey of the indices of most books by Anglican theologians in the past century demonstrates this point—you will be hard-pressed to find more than a passing reference to any Anglican theologians. Instead, modern scholars, whether Evangelical or Anglo-Catholic, frequently draw inspiration from sources outside their own Church. Evangelicals turn to contemporary Protestant thought; Anglo-Catholics look to Rome or the Orthodox East. Rarely do we see a concerted effort to delve deeply into Anglicanism’s own theological heritage (for a notable recent exception, see Peter H. Sedgwick’s masterful two-volume survey of Anglican moral theology).

But this outward gaze has, at times, been Anglicanism’s gift to the wider church. In the 20th century, figures like Michael Ramsey embodied a spirit of ecumenical bridge-building, drawing on Anglicanism’s experience of spanning divergent traditions. But as Anglicanism has fractured over internal disputes and as other traditions have developed ecumenical resources, this impulse has waned. Ultimately, its newfound ecumenical spirit proved to be just another substance with which to fill the Anglican vessel.

Since moving to the United Kingdom, I have observed this dynamic with even greater clarity. If Anglican clerics and theologians spend little time engaging with or even reading Anglican Divines, churchgoers on the whole hardly even know they existed. While in the States, one might find the rare study group exploring the works of Richard Hooker, the Caroline Divines, the Tractarians, or a few 20th-century writers, in the United Kingdom, such a parish group would be a wonder indeed. There seems to be little curiosity about the rich theological inheritance of Anglicanism, beyond figures like C.S. Lewis or John Stott. Many faithful churchgoers know only that they are part of “the Church of England,” a name that increasingly evokes institutional preservation rather than spiritual vitality.

And yet there is something miraculous about this battered old mug. Despite a half-millennium of pouring the theological equivalent of loose and herbal tea, freshly ground and instant coffee, hot chocolate, and God only knows what else into it, people have tasted in that frightful concoction something that evokes God. For all its cracks and contradictions, it has consistently conveyed the gospel in ways that transcend its imperfections. Across centuries, through theological disputes and cultural upheavals, Anglicanism has borne witness to God’s grace — if not always because of the theologies imported into it, then, perhaps, despite them.

If this is true, then perhaps our Anglican vessel has been quietly doctored by One whose gift surpasses all our strivings to fill it. Amid our quarrels over the what theological and cultural substances our Anglican vessel can contain—can comprehend—God has been at work, gently transforming our poor mixtures with the elixir of his gospel. It is a humbling thought: that God, in his love, undoes our schemes and ambitions, offering instead a grace that speaks deeper to his people than all the restless devices and desires of our hearts ever could. Perhaps the grace is Christ himself, present among us, subtly improving or counteracting the flawed elements we continually bring into the mix.

If Anglicanism is to be renewed, it will come by recovering a taste for this divine elixir. Too often, we have sought to fill the vessel with our designs, imagining that the right blend of theology or liturgical practice will restore vitality to our tradition. But what has sustained Anglicanism through the centuries is not human ingenuity but God’s grace.

Perhaps the true vocation of Anglicanism is to be a place where theological hubris is undone, where human pretensions give way to divine reality. It is a tradition that resists neat definitions, frustrating our attempts to mold it — and God — into our image. And in that resistance, it reveals a deeper truth: that the Church is not ours to control or define. It is God’s, and it exists to bear witness to his love.

I find myself thinking of George Herbert’s poem, “Elixir.” In its closing lines, Herbert describes the transformative power of God’s touch:

This is the famous stone
That turneth all to gold;
For that which God doth touch and own
Cannot for less be told.

Herbert’s words remind us that the true value of Anglicanism lies not in the various theologies with which we’ve competed to fill it, but in its capacity to be a vessel for God’s transformative love. At its best, Anglicanism is not merely a mug; it is a chalice, consecrated to hold the elixir of the gospel “that turneth all to gold.”

As I sip my morning coffee, I think of my green mug — not perfect, but perfectly suited to its purpose. And I think of Anglicanism, a tradition that has endured not because of its strength or coherence but because it has been touched by God. To enjoy it properly is to detect beneath its flaws and divisions the elixir of gospel it holds and the divine grace it conveys.

The Rev. Dr. Mark Clavier is Canon Theologian of the Diocese of Swansea and Brecon in the Church in Wales, Bishop's Chaplain, and Vicar of St Mary's Brecon.

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