The Worth of Arguments

by J.L.Houlden

from Women Priests? Yes - Now! pp.19-26, ed. by Canon Harold Wilson, Denham House Press, 1975.
Republished on our website with the necessary permissions.

The Reverend J.L.Houlden , Principal of Cuddesdon Theological College, Oxford.

It is a matter of deciding what arguments are good for what. We can easily think of cases where a coherent argument is presented to us but we fail to be convinced. Of course we may be struck by blind prejudice, so that no argument, of whatever power, would move us. But we may be more praiseworthy than that. It may be that the argument used just does not strike us as having force for the purpose alleged. Satisfactory within itself it may be; but it remains a self-contained entity. It has no power, as far as we are concerned, to go beyond itself to demonstrate the necessity of the steps which are urged.

We might begin by finding the argument from tradition irresistible. It carries automatic conviction for us. For example, Disraeli and Salisbury were, in respect of England's prosperity, markedly successful prime ministers: it cannot but be right to support those who share their label and wear their mantle. Then our mental setting may change. It is not exactly that new arguments have come our way; it is rather that the whole shape of the question has changed for us. Mr. Heath calls himself a Conservative, as Disraeli did; but what of that? This is the 1970s. The men, the problems, the policies, the conditions are all vastly different from those of a century ago. The mere continuity of a name is but one element in a picture of enormous complexity and cannot by itself lend us to such conclusions.

In theology as in politics (and other spheres too), there is difficulty in knowing what work can be properly asked of various kinds of argument. There is also the more intractable matter—that, even with the greatest goodwill, it is often hard for those who find one set of conclusions inescapable to understand why others find them not so in the least and mystified by what they consider to be unjustified leaps to conclusions. In an area where not only zeal and fervour but also piety and reverence are involved, it is all too easy to fail to be aware of the situation. The result is that theological discussion is often barren (even where there is a genuine search for agreement by those who begin by differing), because it takes place at the wrong level. It does not begin by analysing the criteria and laying bare the method. Yet it is at this fundamental level that both harm—and good—must effectively occur. Here clarity may be made or marred.

The question of the proper range for theology is akin to the question of what arguments count for what. For “theology” will have different agenda, depending on the source used. If scripture, then much concerning God and Christ, little on the precise structure and institutions of the Church, less still on conservation and abortion. If tradition, at its maximum, then a vast range of matters, to which Christians have at one time or another devoted thoughtful attention—far too many to handle usefully. If the scholastic method, then a relentless sequence of related questions: that which demands treatment once the process of orderly argument has been entered upon. In these days of economy and retrenchment, when theology must be not diffident but careful in staking its claims, the range of theology may be just what the name implies—that which can be said about God, neither more nor less; and its interests may best be served by caution in moving outwards from that powerful centre. If such movement takes place, let it be certain not to lose the aegis of the centre. So we may investigate the implications of what is said concerning God for this or that matter of proper Christian concern: and that will be the way of tackling the theological task. One policy will be unsatisfactory—yet how people hanker after it! That is, to attempt to gather nosegays of theology, according to their interests, from the results of different ways of setting up its agenda—this from Scripture, this from the Councils, that from the speculation of Aquinas—each in its own terms, or perhaps all seen from a vantage-point foreign to them all, that of some brand of modern man.

So far we have not mentioned the ordination of women. But we have sketched the world of discussion in which the matter should be argued. What then are the arguments and what are they worth?

If the theological and ecclesiastical present is to be determined by the theological and ecclesiastical past, then the ordination of women must fight hard for a hearing. A medieval abbess or two behaving episcopally do not make an argument. And clergywomen are hard to find in the New Testament, though there is room for discussion about equivalents between then and now. Indeed, here is an argument not dissimilar to our example concerning the Conservative party. Undoubtedly Christian congregations in New Testament times had male leaders, and though women played a prominent part, formal leadership cannot quite be ascribed to them—and there are arguments brought against it (e.g. 1 Corinthians 11:3ff; 1 Timothy 2 :12).

Undoubtedly most Christian congregations still have male leaders. But, before we look at hypothetical females, what about those male leaders? and those congregations? There is continuity, yes; there are similarities in activity—the message and the rites. Yet may that continuity not be counteracted by the great differences between the circumstances of society and the Church then and now? by differences in the role and activities of the men involved? And if the details of male ministry may not be unquestionably derived from the New Testament, not only because they are partly obscure but also because it is not clear how (let alone why) they should now be reproduced, with what force is it possible to claim to leave women for ever in the position they occupied in those congregations in Greece and Asia Minor so long ago? It is the naïve confidence of the positive claims to reproduce New Testament states of affairs in this regard or that, which saps confidence in the usefulness of the negative claims, i.e. the rejection of what cannot be discovered in the sacred text.

The same sterile, unhistorical quality attends the idea of giving permission to women to be clergy as long as they are not congregational leaders (on the grounds that in New Testament times they had quasi-clerical functions but not the rule of Churches). By what logic exactly can then lead so precisely to now? Here it is not just a question of carrying conviction, it is a matter also of hard realities: by what criteria are the Church of the first century and that of the twentieth century comparable? Is it to be seen as a matter of totting up continuities and discontinuities? What on earth is the value of that? Yet how otherwise can we find enough continuity to allow enough identity between the two for our common Christianity to mean anything? It may be a more promising idea to look rather at the shape of belief concerning God and to see where we are led.

There is no plain sailing if we would find today's judgements in such matters in the behaviour of yesterday, including that of New Testament times. And we shall find no argument there for the ordination of women which will not give us more headaches than it relieves; even if we shall also find no knock-down argument against it.

But Christian history has one lesson for us, one which in recent decades has increasingly pressed itself on the alert Christian consciousness, often to its discomfort. It is the degree to which Christian ideas and institutions have been continually in flux, adapting themselves to changing conditions, even at the price of manifest inconsistency with their past. Is it then beyond the limits of Christian adaptability to ordain women when their social position is so vastly changed? But this is no theological argument, merely an observation from history.

Perhaps there are other ways of doing theology, of formulating theological argument, which deserve consideration. Let us take it that Christian theology consists of saying what can be said concerning God as disclosed in Jesus and encountered in the Christian experience. Pure theology, that is, concerns God. The rest is comment, extrapolation, application. It is the attempt to see how a matter is to be judged in the light of that powerful centre. So the “theology of the ministry” is the attempt to map out the implications of Christian understanding of God for the matter of the Church's ministry; and the question of women's ordination is one aspect of that.

But does the light of the powerful centre truly shine that far? Is not this matter on the very edges of theology? If we put the approach in more personal terms and ask, What is God's will in this matter? can we for a moment suppose that he wants us to do anything other than use our common sense ? If social institutions point that way, if there is need, if there is desire, let not “theology” be falsely involved. It has no bearing on the matter, at least not in the way of solemn, elaborate argument. It is a matter of expediency for the Church, no more, no less; that is the level at which judgment must be made.

Yet from the powerful centre the light of God shines powerfully, and he who numbers the hairs of men's heads and without whose knowledge sparrows do not fall, takes seriously the institutions by which his gospel is proclaimed. There is not an item in all creation which may not speak, to the attentive observer, of the Creator. And if we do not so attend, how can we know him, how can we be in the way for “doing theology”? The method is symbolic, and the glory of symbolism is appropriateness. In this language, Jesus is what he is for us because he is the superbly appropriate symbol of God. Not (let us add hastily) by his maleness, but by his teaching, by the nature of his death and his new life, by all that has flowed from him. The priest of the Church too is a symbolic figure and it is best if the symbol is as complete as possible— many-sided and appropriate.

But symbols only “work” if they communicate their significance. They may do it in ways that are easily explicable: the priest symbolizes Christ as he presides at the Eucharist. They may also do it in ways which those who “see” can barely express even to themselves—indeed they may be hardly aware of it, though it may be crucial in their lives. So the priest, in all sorts of intricate ways, often symbolizes fatherhood, with many complex strands; and people may love or hate him for it, for reasons beyond their control. If a symbol does not communicate and the skill to use it cannot be revived, it may as well be abandoned.

Symbols are not the heart of the truth they express, though they commonly gather the affection that belongs to the truth itself. So when they fail to communicate, there should, ultimately, be no serious regret—provided the valuable truth is not lost. This is the reverse side of our remark about the capacity of everything to speak of God. Everything can speak of God, but when and whether it will do so is a secondary matter, changing with time and place, as social conditions and sensibilities change. What matters is that God should be heard!

So the question is: if the priest is, in various respects, a symbolic figure (representing now Christ to his people, now God to the world, now his people to each other and to God), is maleness essential to his appropriateness, his ability to communicate what he stands for? And if it is, is it so at the articulate level or only at the inarticulate? If indeed maleness were in this way essential, then no doubt the cause of women's ordination should be seen as a piece of doctrinaire theorizing. But this is a case for testing consumer reactions. However powerfully fitting in theory the maleness of the priest may be alleged to be for his symbolic effectiveness, that case will fall if this is not sensed or understood by the faithful. There is nothing sacrosanct about symbols—though people should no doubt be heartily encouraged to explore those that are central. What matters is that the truth concerning God should be perceived; and if female priests can now, over whatever range of comprehension, facilitate that appropriately, what hesitation should properly remain?

In one respect at least—and it is a matter of theology—this appropriateness must surely be admitted. Right at the beginning of Christianity, St. Paul expressed the insight that “there is neither male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). He meant that with regard to what God had revealed, accomplished and provided through Christ, men and women were on the same footing. His words are not a licence to Christians to eradicate as many distinctions as possible between the sexes in every area of life. If, however, we see his statement as a proper expression of the central Christian convictions, then Christian institutions ought to express it wherever possible. In our earlier language, the symbolism of those institutions ought to cohere with the message. It can hardly be denied that women priests would be an appropriate form for that symbolism to take. On the other hand, this argument, applied to this particular aspect of Christian life, would not overtop all arguments from expediency: it is not “hard”, mandatory theology, for the working out in human life of the implications of belief in God cannot so easily be formulated or decreed. It is, rather, an option which is open to us if circumstances make it desirable for the proclamation of the gospel so that it may be heard.

There is an odd contradiction in the Catholic tradition which bears on this matter. One Catholic tendency is to make the most of symbols—it is the sacramental principle, and it is for reasons such as those outlined, extended wisely. But with regard to the priesthood, there is another tendency which works in the opposite direction. Not the personality of the priest but his priesthood—that's what matters. The man is rendered anonymous by his role, signified, for example, in his vestments as he stands at the altar. The unworthiness of the minister does not invalidate his priestly acts. It is odd that those who have used this approach do not always fnd it easy to envisage that anonymous bearers of priesthood might be women. Perhaps the women would not necessarily take kindly to such a tepidly welcoming argument!

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