(This testimony forms a chapter in the book mentioned in its first paragraph, which is itself a heartening compendium of faith-stories by Christian Biblical scholars. My short autobiography traces the formation and the influences on my life up to 2014. Since then, the Lord has continued to gently lead my husband and me, bestowing upon us 25 — soon 27! — grandchildren, keeping our entire family in the Orthodox faith, knitting us into the extraordinary fellowship of St. Nicholas Church in McKees Rocks (near Pittsburgh), and giving us great joy during our days of semi-retirement.)
“This book affirms that testimony … is an integral part of the Christian tradition.” This sentence from the prospectus for this book— I (Still) Believe: Biblical Scholars Share Their Stories, eds. Byron and Lohr, Zondervan, 2015— convinced me to join the project and add my chapter to it. “Testimony” brings me back to my childhood Salvation Army, whose doctrines include the phrase “he that believeth hath the witness in himself” (1 John 5:10, KJV), and where testimonies form a regular part of the meetings. As a teen, I had a dilemma, however: the Army is conversion-oriented, and I had no such experience to relate. When giving “my testimony,” I was forced to focus upon the mundane— standing for Christ at school, or something that I had learned in C. S. Lewis’ books. I had visited the “penitent form” (or “altar”) and then the “holiness table,” so one might have thought that I could point to a crisis of faith (“salvation”) or work of grace (”sanctification”) at these two dedication sites. But those moments had merely sealed a time of quiet growth, or emotional (not necessarily spiritual) distress.
The Beginning of Gratitude (1972-1983)
Indeed, my life has been marked by an absence of religious melodrama: I doubted the existence of God for a whole two days in my twenties, and have had a relatively calm time of it. There was a period when I yearned for a real story to share, and even more deeply for a visionary experience. In my best moments, however, I realized that the Lord was gracious in not directing me down either path: my teen years were not marked by dangerous lifestyle choices; further, this imaginative girl was prevented from “worshipping” a visionary experience rather than the One who shows himself. Now, as then, I possess no tale of spectacular illumination, just the constant wooing of the Holy Spirit to come “further in and further up” so that I might “taste and see that the LORD is good!” My pastimes, wifely and motherly life, musical ventures, studies at various places, vagabond teaching in Canada, position at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary, writing, friendships, migration from the Salvation Army through the Anglican Communion (with a brief detour) to the historic Orthodox Church— all these are threads in a tapestry not mainly of my own making.
Even the decision to specialize in New Testament was not a distinct choice. I had supposed, as an “uncool” teen, that I would remain single and, as an undergraduate, that I would specialize in English—specifically, medieval studies—like my beloved C. S. Lewis, and my mentor Alexandra F. Johnson, of Victoria College, University of Toronto. Of C. S. Lewis there is no need to say anything. But some may not know my beloved Sandy—an exuberant and salty lady! From Lewis I had learned to be a Christian in the imagination and in the mind. From her I learned explicitly what I had intuited from my parents, Andrew and Bessie McEwan: that being a Christian is not a separate compartment. My first encounter with Prof. Johnson was in a crowded lecture hall where she co-taught “The Bible and/as Literature.” As a Christian undergraduate in my second week of study, I was delighted by her answer to the question: “Why do you suppose Christianity spread so quickly in the first century?” “The short answer is, because it is the truth!” (I loved her for it!) Then she went on to talk about the pax Romana, the meeting of Hebraic and Hellenistic worldviews, the countercultural impact of the disciples. Her forthrightness, coupled with a thoughtful entry into numerous academic conversations, became my model.
Also salutary was my first visit to her office, when she dismantled my evangelical prejudices by butting out a cigarette as she motioned me in. This godly yet iconoclastic woman gave me permission to keep the faith while drinking deeply of academic wells. Several vignettes come back to me: her evident joy in medieval miracle plays, down to the details of the cherubs “that runneth around the heavens” (that is, the top of the carts); her irreverent joke about Eliot’s “dove descending [that] breaks the air” (“An unfortunate line, that!”); her challenge concerning my too-discursive paper on Shakespeare (“McEwan, you have an analytical mind—just use it!”); her matter-of-fact response to the mediocre mark for my senior paper, completed in too much haste. I learned the graces of humor, critical thinking, steadfastness, ecstasy—the going out of one’s self—and perspective, all in an academic environment. Northrop Frye and Jay MacPherson were the stars at Victoria, but Sandy was my luminary.
I met my husband Chris at college orientation, over a poetic line from T. S. Eliot, pretentiously quoted by me, and triumphantly capped by him. We spent our first night arguing philosophy and religion into the wee hours. In his mind, I suppose, was what consumes most nineteen-year-old men newly arrived to campus; I astonished him by excusing myself early, because I wanted to be alert in the morning for my first Anglican Eucharist—an orientation vacation from the Salvation Army. We had a class together the following Tuesday, and he turned up at my house on Friday, then at the Army Hall on Sunday. That fall he engaged my dad (who loved a debate) with questions about the faith, tried my mom’s patience by smoking (I couldn’t believe she provided an ashtray!) and growing his hair to his shoulders, taught me how to parallel park so that I could finally get my driver’s license, and took me on my eighteenth birthday to my first adult-rated movie which, I was relieved, disturbed him, too. (Life is not a Cabaret, my friend!). My undergraduate years were spent specializing in Chris and English literature, and minoring in Classics.
Perhaps this head-on collision with a nonbeliever who infatuated me set my identity as an apologist-academic—ready to defend the Christian worldview as intellectually respectable, but happy to share interests with anyone. I was not predisposed to be sectarian, despite my Army enclave: my autodidact father had catholic tastes, and was the single greatest influence on my life. Further, my favorite high school teacher had been Mr. Glazin (now of blessed memory), whose faith remained a mystery to himself, but who frequently quoted Terence to us: Homo sum: nihil humanum puto alienum mihi (“I am a human being: consider alien to me nothing that is human.”) Roger Glazin was to me what “the Knock” (William Kirkpatrick) was to C. S. Lewis—always challenging, and ruthless in the search for truth, whether of not this made his students uncomfortable.
The saga of our courtship was sometimes stormy, since both of us were passionate extroverts. During our second year, I turned down his premature proposal (for I was adamant about a Christian marriage) and was shattered. Alone, after my raging tears subsided, I “heard” a “word”—my beloved would enter the faith, which in due time he did. We were married at the end of our third year of university, and lived as poor as church mice on the university campus. I had assumed that I would go on to do an MA. Instead, Chris became convinced that we should, like Christ, “not please ourselves” (Romans 15:3), but enter the William Booth Training College in Toronto—this, despite our concern for the lack of sacraments in the Army, and our occasional defection to other churches to look for alternatives. Chris alone had “received the call,” but at that time married couples trained and were commissioned together. I reasoned that much of officership (“pastorate” in the Army) involved teaching, so at least I could use this natural ability. I was not as sure about my competence to evangelize or to counsel, but supposed that Chris would do this. It was, to our minds, a noble path: we had before us the example of Major (now Colonel) Norman Coles of North Toronto Corps, who blended harmoniously the gifts of peace, astute counselling, and invigorating teaching.
Because we were university graduates, the training officers allowed us to supplement our classes with those at Toronto School of Theology, where we met the Rev. Dr. Oliver O’Donovan, a spectacular and faithful mind. At the Army we learned discipline, faithfulness and strategies for ministry; from Oliver we learned to think theologically. The two years at Training College were arduous, with even our half-day off a week, our “quiet time” and “clean-up” hours scheduled. We owe a debt to many officers who formed us there, including Bill Wilson, Earl McInnes, “Uncle” Fred Watkins, and Don Copple (with their supportive wife-officers). However, we were hungry for rigorous academics, and O’Donovan’s classes kept us intellectually sane. Moreover, Oliver encouraged us to continue our graduate studies after we were commissioned as officers, which we did a few years later, when we were “farewelled” from our first appointment in Hespeler, Ontario, to a suburb of Montreal.
There I met the Rev. Dr. (now bishop) N. T. (“Tom”) Wright. Taking classes at McGill with him while also preaching in the Salvation Army, I found myself naturally drawn to the academic study of the Scriptures. I did not, however, follow entirely in his footsteps, for my mentor’s focus was largely historical (even while he promotes a three-pronged approach—historical, literary, and theological), while my first love has always been the second prong. This would-be English teacher was about to turn her gaze seriously upon another corpus of literature. Though the biblical books cannot (with perhaps a few exceptions) be considered “high literature,” what I had learned in my undergraduate days in English and classics classes would prove helpful in illuminating their beauty and power. By way of Tom’s instruction, I integrated that aesthetic love with history, theology, and faith.
With McGill days came also the “refreshment” of liturgy. Though not yet baptized, I blithely joined my husband in frequenting the Anglican mid-week eucharists, both at McGill and in a Montreal “West Island” parish. While leading a Bible study composed of young couples at our corps, we decided that we all needed to be baptized, though this was not Army policy—and so we were, in a lake. I suppose that this was the beginning of the end for our Army leadership but we didn’t see it that way. We were part of a brash new crop of officers challenging the Army over various matters. Ardently and presumptuously, we assumed that there was a new day coming, and the Army, which in its early years had baptized and practiced the Supper, would eventually re-establish these. Montreal was graced by the visit of David Watson, a charismatic-evangelical Anglican and we were enthused. But we underestimated the Army’s zealousness for its own century-and-a half traditions, and our leaders were not impressed with our activism. Though we were not disciplined for our stance or actions, and we did not leave specifically because of the Army’s nonsacramental position, it became clear to Chris and me, as we worked on our MA and then PhD, that we were square pegs in round holes. Again, the decision to leave was gradual, and came gently so that the break was not as heart-rending to me—a fourth-generation Salvationist—as it might have been. I am grateful for all that I learned in the Army concerning Jesus, the holy life, discipline, stirring music, and service to others: as Newfoundlanders say, “It is a good place to be from!”
Gently Led, Like Those with Young (1983-1992)
I remember the day the decision was made, partway through our graduate studies. We were travelling from Ottawa to Montreal, and intruded into Tom Wright’s Hudson home to talk it over. Just as Tom had played spiritual midwife to me, reading Isaiah 40:11 when it seemed I might lose my first unborn daughter, now he was instrumental in helping us move, without guilt, into the Anglican Communion. Much had already prepared us, including that luminous College Eucharist when Tom, the celebrant, had led us in singing “I am the Bread of Life.” And it was not only the sacraments. The God-oriented worship in the Anglican liturgy beckoned. I was moving from a defensive and intellectual focus upon Christianity as a system to a hunger for Christ. This may seem odd, considering the Army’s emphasis upon personal experience, but I had found the Army’s encouragement of this a little sentimental and sometimes oppressive. Psychological distress routinely intruded into the altar-call when we sang such lyrics as “More than all my lips can utter, more than all I do or say is the depth of my devotion….” The words stuck in my throat: “do I love Him enough?” It was time to stop uprooting the plant for inspection of the roots.
Anglican liturgy became a window that permitted a focus upon the Lord. When I compared the Army meeting to the Anglican service, I saw that the first moved from the sermon to the altar-call as its peak moment, whereas the Church gave pride of place to the sacrament, where we primarily receive from Christ, rather than give to him. There was a palpable awe, rather than the torment of constant introspection: “I surrender all”—manifestly impossible for me—yielded to “Let all mortal flesh keep silence, and in fear and trembling stand….” None of this happened in an ecclesial bubble, either: as a student, I was intrigued with the Transfiguration, especially the version in Luke’s gospel, where the three disciples, focusing upon the Son and instructed to listen to him by the Father, enter into the glory cloud. They are embraced by the Holy Spirit, rather than seeking and pleading, as we had done in “holiness meetings.” The Anglican worship, caricatured by some as “formalism,” freed me from obsessive spiritual temperature-taking. Study about the historical Jesus as establishing God’s rule (rather than our “building the kingdom”), and about the apostle Paul as focusing on the faithfulness of Jesus (rather than our “faith in Jesus”) was congruent with my new ecclesial discoveries. Spiritual “experience” came serendipitously: one had to lose one’s life to find it.
I do not mean to be hard on my childhood faith community. Of course there was true worship there; of course people worshipped the Father, ministered in Jesus’ name, and exhibited the gifts and fruits of the Spirit. But for me worship had been distorted, and balance was restored in the classic liturgy. There were, of course, challenges. My husband had developed a more “baptistic” view of the sacraments, whereas for me infant baptism made sense, and so we quarreled. Together, though, we balked at the general confession, which sounded to Army ears like the congregants did not really believe that God had forgiven—did they have to get newly “saved” every week? We wondered what to think when the priest held up the bread and said, “This is the Lamb of God!” And clouds were gathering amidst the broadness of Anglicanism—liberal, anglo-catholic, evangelical, charismatic. What were we to make of those who approved abortion or questioned the physical resurrection of Jesus? (We had no idea in the eighties how critical the divisions would prove to be!) We took our time before we were confirmed, ascertaining that we could find a place of integrity there. But it seemed a natural home for me, a straight line from childhood love of C. S. Lewis, to the ministrations of Oliver O’Donovan and N. T. Wright.
During all this time we had also been working through our personal anguish as a young couple desirous of children. Motherhood may not seem to be part of a story concerning academia and faith, but in my case, my identity as mother, teacher, and academic are inseparable. Our eight years wait seemed interminable, especially as it was punctuated by a hopeful moment and a miscarriage. (I look to see that little one in the resurrection, along with the two other babies that I lost subsequently. Could they be three boys to match my girls?) Then came a second infrequent “word” from the Lord, assuring me to be patient. But the situation was not helped by the well-meaning who took us aside to say, “Don’t wait too long!” assuming that by choice, because of our studies and ministry, we were childless. Even the media misunderstood. During our three years at West Island Salvation Army Corps, we had been pro-life activists, and Chris had concocted a plan to expose the inconsistencies of abortion: an ad in the Gazette offering to “buy” an unborn child. Practically, that meant we would support the woman until the baby was born, and help her keep or place it at her discretion. The media discovered that we were childless, and the article ran nationwide, with our childlessness in the headline, implying our motive. However, we had no intention of keeping Hazel’s baby, as we were undergoing strenuous infertility workups. Finally, after the miscarriage, I shelved these efforts and went headlong into graduate studies (alongside my officer duties). God has a sense of humour: two days into intensive summer Hebrew I was wracked with morning sickness.
Colleagues and profs at the Faculty of Religious Studies joked: would Humphrey have more babies or chapters in her thesis? A well-meaning colleague took me aside and asked if Chris knew about birth-control. The thesis won: four chapters plus intro and conclusion, to three healthy daughters, each one of them a miracle. I did my first guest lecture in Prof. Fred Wisse’s class very “big with child,” worked on my Doktorklub presentation while post-partum in the hospital, brought my second-born in a basket to the TA room, and defended my thesis with lice that I had caught from my oldest child’s friend. Parasites aside, the rhythm of mothering, teaching and writing was exhilarating. Alongside my family life, I had the joy of seeing my dissertation, The Ladies and the Cities, published, followed by a short academic guide on Joseph and Aseneth, and several articles. Some of the material in these was also suitable for sharing with friends in various Church gatherings—sermons, retreats, Bible studies, and the like. Having a literary oldest child was a boon, because I read my work to her, and if she didn’t understand it, would reword the argument. Illustrations for teaching and writing often came from my motherly experience; inversely I shared my work with my three daughters. This symbiosis continued into my post-graduate career: not many children pretend “Aseneth” on a camping trip, putting ashes in their hair! For me, the hard work of both scholarship and motherhood was also play, and I put my children first, using Old Testament scholar Elizabeth (“Betty”) Achtemeier as a model. I did not consider academics my “career,” but what I did alongside my real job, which was to nurture Meredith, Alexandra, and Joëlle.
And there was another ingredient: music. From my youth I had been active in band and singing and made money in college teaching piano and theory. Throughout our graduate years, I supplemented our two federal scholarships by teaching, and played piano for the St. Stephen’s in Montreal. Later, in Aylmer, Quebec (near Ottawa) I maintained a whirlwind schedule of teaching piano, theory, and singing, while piecing together lectureships in the Ottawa area. For the last few years of our time there, I served as part-time music director at St. George’s Church (now renamed Sts. Peter and Paul) in Ottawa, encouraged by the pastor’s heart of Fr. David Crawley. One year I had six part-time positions besides being a mom—sessional at St. Paul University, University of Ottawa, Carleton University and Augustine College; music teacher; and Church music director. At University of Ottawa, I fearfully agreed to teach courses in religion en français. I loved it all, but do not recommend the craziness to others. As a result, when students inquire about doing the PhD, I tell them that they should only do it if they love study for its own sake, not as an easy route to employment!
All of these experiences blended with my academic quests: I learned the art of rhetoric in different circumstances, which became a major interest in my biblical studies; I learned the interplay of music, Christian spirituality, and worship, other major themes in my writing; and I ventured into questions of God-talk, sexuality, ecclesiology, and tradition through debates in the Anglican Church of Canada. Life with my girls and Chris, Bible studies, conferences, retreats, guest sermons, synod presentations, college classes, choir practices (with the bat doing pirouettes in the rafters while we sang), and competitions with my piano students all merged together, each venue feeding the other.
Strangers in a Strange Land (1992-1996)
One excursus in our life’s story merits emphasis: our brief tenure at a suburban community church in Ottawa in the mid-nineties. Here we learned the hard road of ministry, and faced difficult ecclesiological questions, though we did not settle on answers for several more years. This independent community was a split-off from a Pentecostal church, allowing for charismatic gifts but not requiring them. It was composed of evangelical-charismatic “just- folks” and intellectuals. After his PhD, Chris applied to pastor this church because teaching positions were sparse, and we had a family; I would mother and teach part-time, between Montreal and Ottawa. The elders saw Chris as a good fit because of his Salvation Army background, along with his doctorate. Our hopes, and theirs, were not to be fulfilled. Members had left the mother church for good reason (in our opinion) but common cause against wrong is not an adequate foundation for unity. The church became increasingly polarized, and my husband ended up displeasing both sides, not wanting to favor the “just-folks” or the intellectuals. The leaders shared governance and teaching, and I also spoke monthly or so. Mostly, however, it was Chris’s “gig,” and I supported him, keeping out of the controversies whenever possible. I am sure that we did not do everything right, and cannot ascertain our role, or lack or responsibility, in the church’s demise.
As things were rapidly coming to an end, we met our first Orthodox friends, and found solace in the Great Vespers service. Counselling with Fr. Maxym Lysack and our newfound love for the ancient Church raised questions: was it against nature to “plant” a church de novo, in the way that the church my husband was pastoring had been conceived? Could it be that the Church is less like an institution or voluntary association and more like a living organism? Fr. Maxym helped me through my anger when the elders dismissed my husband, and my grief when the church dissolved, and my friends dispersed. Despite the unpleasantness, we learned much and retain dear friends from that period. There the seeds were sown for my interest in ecclesiology and the continuity between Holy Tradition and the Scriptures.
Between Two Opinions (1996-2002)
Chris might have jumped immediately, but I was not ready to plunge into the foreign waters of Orthodoxy—for me, some of the doctrines remained problematic, and I was attached to Western hymnody and my comrades-in-arms against Anglican revisionism. We returned to the Anglicans, and the sunny oversight of Fr. David Crawley, but every feast day found us at Christ the Saviour Orthodox. It was our second home. Here I found spiritual grounding for my continuing fascination with vision-reports, and an apologetic for a full-blown Trinitarian spirituality against the generic “spirituality” so popular today: Ecstasy and Intimacy, published later when I moved to Pittsburgh, depended upon my growth during this time and was largely an Orthodox book written by someone who was still formally Anglican. The theological insights of And I Turned to See the Voice are also undergirded by the spiritual discoveries of this period, so that the book developed beyond a mere collection of literary essays when it finally was published after my move to Pittsburgh.
Another formative activity stands out: my participation with other theologians in the Canadian Primate’s Theological Commission. We were to probe behind the hot-button issues (homoerotic relations, abortion, inclusive language for God), seeking the reasons for these controversies. There I had delightful and painful debate and engaged in a writing project with Bishop Victoria Matthews, Canon Alyson Barnett-Cowan, the Rev. Dr. Robert Crause (of beloved memory), Dr. Christopher Lind, Dr. Hanna Kassis, and others. Though we were given free rein, the Primate made it clear that we were to model “peaceful dialogue” for the embattled Canadian church. Because of our love of ideas and the group dynamics, we went beyond civility to actual friendship; but our positions were irreconcilable. Those who gave primacy to Scripture (and Tradition) were countered by those who stressed the fourth component (i.e., contemporary experience) of the so-called “Wesleyan Quadrilateral.” Our writing of a handbook for parish use was complicated: some wanted to use the creeds as an organizational principle, whereas others insisted we begin with experience. I myself was concerned about the effect of the workbook: as academics with a love for debate who had forged unlikely friendships, we had some common ground. I feared that the layperson, not sharing our taste or experience, would read this cacophony of views and be left like a patient opened upon the operating table, but untended. We were to drill down and expose the roots: but what tools could reconstruct the tooth?
So began my suspicions that the Anglican Communion was inherently instable. Among the Commission were Anglo-Catholic, evangelical, and charismatic members (which was I?) who formed an informal coalition. But even we had substantive disagreements on the sacraments, ecclesiology, and Tradition. Our stand against revisionism united us, but were we simply a conglomerate? The disunity in the Primate’s Commission was characteristic of the Anglican Communion as a whole; the disagreements among the Commission’s conservative subgroup were emblematic of the fragile unity of Anglican Essentials (Canada) and the emerging ACNA (Anglican Church in North America). A wonderful dream—but improbable and, alas, not really one body, in my final judgment!
To Make an End Is to Make a Beginning (2002-2014)
In 2002 came our move to Pittsburgh Theological Seminary. It was an unlikely prospect, and catalyzed by 9/11, of all things. The Anglican seminary north of Pittsburgh invited me to pinch-hit when their guest speaker’s wife wouldn’t allow him to fly in October 2001. On hearing me, a certain PTS professor (who “prayed” me into the position) told me of the opening, and the rest is history. After cobbling together lectureships with other roles, tenure-track teaching was a relief. I continued in Anglican (Episcopal) circles, cheered by the courage of Bishop (now Archbishop) Robert Duncan, and enjoying fellowship in Church of the Ascension. Due to PTS, I also had the Presbyterian worldview to consider: the committed stance of seminarians was refreshing, even though some of them were committed to revisionism. These were not dilettantes like undergraduates, but played for keeps, and I learned that my puckish Canadian humor was not appreciated when I presented opposing views.
Here I honed my philosophy of teaching. For me, teaching is like friendship: it is standing side by side with those who share a common interest, rather than looking face to face. And so, we teach subjects, even while the learners are important. However, the seminary professor’s main subject-matter is a (the!) Person: so, though our study is academic, it remains intensely personal. From instruction in reading strategies to theological enigmas, I see all that I teach as service to siblings who also serve me. Varying abilities in the classroom may be complications, but they are also opportunities for me and for students being formed as pastors. One of the hardest things to deal with has been the assumption of students who share my theological perspective that they will therefore receive an A. And one of my deepest woes has been that some of my best students do not heed Scriptures and Holy Tradition. Yet they are not, in the end, my responsibility, and so I pray for them. Being a professor in a seminary of a different tradition is emancipating and provides me with an informal and non-threatening pastorate for those who are distressed at the newest changes in their denomination. I am honored.
True prayer has been a long time coming. I tried for many years to adopt a “rule of prayer,” but the busyness of life interfered. Also distracting for me was the constant professional pressure—particularly at conferences—to be recognized as clever, or novel, or seminal in my writing. In terms of Jesus’ parable of the seed, I was in danger of the weeds. Two mainstays have helped: N. T. Wright’s advice not to let my scholarship overshadow my walk with the Lord, and the slow but steady adoption of the Christian disciplines (reading, praying, silence, fasting, confession, Eucharist). Formative, too, have been the family crises that we weathered with the Lord’s help, and the wonder that we have come through unscathed. Dangers to health and to emotional well-being are terrifying, but put things in perspective. Chris and I held on through midlife and teenage periods: we are still in love after forty years; all three of our daughters are Christians, married to good men, and raising lively children. Continually I am delighted by Chris’ sense of humour, and the book ideas he gives me. With him, I have learned to sit loosely to human approval, and not to be devastated when scorned or misrepresented. Instead, I seek to hear the Church catholic, entering into conversation with those who touch me and those who challenge me. I don’t consider my publications “my books,” but a joint effort with other Christians, past and present, lay and ordained.I have been released from the unending quest for a “fresh” angle. (It is amusing when someone remarks on an interpretation presumed “new” and I can answer, “Well, that is the way that St. John Chrysostom reads this passage!”)
For some time I intended to remain “Orthophile” like Evelyn Underhill, with Orthodox insights spicing up my life. Eventually, however, it became apparent that one cannot not cherry-pick from the Church and remain healthy. My final move to Orthodoxy came unexpectedly, through a confluence of influences: my research, my husband’s job editing The Word (the magazine of the Antiochian Archdiocese of North America), events in the Anglican Communion, and prayer. I was researching for my book Grand Entrance and was immersed in the paradoxes of Isaiah 6: the coal is both mediated (by the angel, by the tongs) and immediate (in the angel’s hand, on Isaiah’s lips). Curious, I thought: something can both require mediation and be immediately effective! The same week I noticed in my husband’s proofs of The Word (an Orthodox magazine that he edited) an article on “The Meeting (Presentation) in the Temple,” when the infant Jesus was received by Symeon and Anna. Printed in bold was this ancient hymn: “Christ the coal of fire, whom holy Isaiah foresaw, now rests in the arms of the Theotokos as in a pair of tongs, and He is given to the elder [Symeon].” Like a flash, I saw it: my lingering concern over honor to Holy Mary was unnecessary, for she was the tongs, not an obstacle or a usurper. Simultaneously to this “pull-in,” there came the “push-out.” The Anglican Primates returned from a meeting with Archbishop Rowan, and one of the conservative Primates remarked that his faithful were “staying in the Communion but were not in communion” with the national Church. This was troubling. For him, the Church was an institution in which we could remain so long as we were not hampered in ministry; I understood Her as a mystery in the company of the apostles, a sharing in the Triune God. Then came my third “word” from Him—“Stop procrastinating. You know where you belong.” Thirteen years after my first Great Vespers, I was received by chrismation into the Orthodox Church. It is strange to be writing from a position of security rather than within an embattled community: Five years later, I am still discovering this new positive voice. I believe that this change is visible in the final chapter of my latest book, Scripture and Tradition, though the book is written with those in mind who may not be convinced of the importance of Holy Tradition. My most recent research interests in the righteousness of God, the biblical theology of C. S. Lewis, and mediation are more robustly constructive, rather than defensive, projects.
Gratitude is the apt response to these forty years. Not only have I been given the grace to (still) believe, but to believe more—for God has stretched and deepened my understanding of him, of his apostolic Church, and of his world. He has led me through potential devastation to peace, just as the young priest N. T. Wright once prayed when I was fearful of losing my unborn child! I may not be “with young” now, but He still gently leads, helping me to be fruitful. For those who are beginning or in the thick of academic life, I would offer these lessons learned: faith usually is not lost because of ideas, but through bad decisions or bad company. For biblical scholars, it can be forfeited by treating the Bible or (worse!) one’s own scholarship as an end in itself, rather than as a window to Christ, or a means of glorifying him. Indeed, those interested in an academic career should never not embark upon it for the sake of employment or self-worth, but because they love books, ideas, and others with whom to share these things: in today’s climate, it is probable that our professional path will not be easy. Certainly employment and prestige are not assured. This means that the academic road should be travelled out of love for the subject and the teaching, and in order to give glory to Christ. Debates in scholarship can be brutal, even painful, for those seeking to be faithful in our secular and sometimes toxic environment. When facing inevitable criticism, it is important, to resist the temptation to self-justification, but instead to work with gusto, writing and teaching what you love: the Lord is your defense whenever colleagues, students, or church associates do not like what they hear. As one wise brother in Christ put it, “Acquire peace, and a multitude around you will be saved!” By all means, maintain friendship with those who do not know Him, but stay closer to those who are wiser, shinier, and more transparent than you are—with their encouragement, you too, by the Spirit, “will shine like the sun!” Such mentors have been invaluable to me: though their books may be exhilarating, it is their generosity of spirit, and their iconic transparency, pointing to Christ, that I cherish most. My own desire is to be of similar service to brothers and sisters, whether I meet them on the academic road, in the Church, or in the world at large.
Notes: My published works mentioned above, and explanation of the “Wesleyan Quadrilateral”
The Ladies and the Cities: Apocalyptic Identity and Transformation in Joseph and Aseneth, 4 Ezra, the Apocalypse and The Shepherd of Hermas (Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Supplement Series 17; Sheffield: Sheffield/Continuum Press, 1995).
Joseph and Aseneth (Guides to the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha, 8; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000)
Ecstasy and Intimacy: When the Holy Spirit Meets the Human Spirit (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005)
And I Turned to See the Voice: The Rhetoric of Vision in the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007).
The “Wesleyan Quadrilateral” was not articulated by either John or Charles Wesley, but by a twentieth-century theologian named Albert C. Outler). Many contemporary theologians, not simply Methodists, have adopted his idea to refer to Scripture, tradition, reason, and experience as four equally valid foundations for personal and Church decision making. John Wesley would not have put these four things on an equal footing, but in his day of formal (and empty) religion stressed the importance of personal experience for practical reasons. It is not unusual in our day to see someone appeal to personal and contemporary experience as a trump card against the clear meaning of Scripture or long-standing tradition, and urge a change in Church practice or teaching. Towards the end of his career, Outler himself lamented this (ab)use of his concept.
Primate’s Theological Commission Handbook, Wrestling with God 4 vols, ABC Publishing, 2001-4).
Grand Entrance: Worship on Earth as In Heaven (Grand Rapids: Brazos, 2011).
Scripture and Tradition: What the Bible REALLY Says (Grand Rapids: Brazos, 2013).
Edith M. Humphrey 