She Was Enthroned

Until she was the Bishop of London, she did not make the news very much. Still, after she was chosen as Archbishop of Canterbury — thus head of the Church of England and titular head of the Anglican Communion — Sarah Mullally became the topic of the day in ecclesiastical circles. For the first time in history, a woman was going to be seated on the “chair of St. Augustine.”

That chair is a stone artifact from the 12th century, reproducing the early cathedra, most likely made of wood, which was the seat of Augustine of Canterbury, a man sent at the beginning of the 7th century by Pope Gregory the Great to evangelize the tribes that had invaded Britain from Northern Europe.

The enthronement — so it is called — happened at Canterbury Cathedral, a magnificent example of Gothic architecture, in the presence of dignitaries of church and state on Wednesday, March 25, which is for Anglicans as well as for Catholics and Lutherans the day of the Annunciation of the birth of Jesus to his mother Mary.

The symbolism of the celebration, including the choice of the day, was not lost on anyone, either those who rejoiced or those who contested. The Archbishop did not mince words as she applied to herself in her homily the sentence “Nothing is impossible with God,” which the Gospel of Luke adopts to comment on the unexpected pregnancy of Mary’s cousin Elisabeth and, implicitly, Mary’s own pregnancy.

I watched the broadcast from home. When she was enthroned, I did experience a kind of symbolic shock, immediately followed by a deep peace. This was remarkable to me, because I had met women bishops in the past and worked with them, including Katherine Jefferts Shori, who was presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church from 2006 to 2015. I wonder if I was feeling the feelings of those physically present in the cathedral.

Whatever your persuasion, your understanding of rituals and traditions, or your relationship with Christianity, a woman being ceremonially seated on a sacred throne, which was a place of power reserved for men for thirteen centuries, is something else. Even though the UK had Queen Elizabeth as head of state and church for decades, I felt that something unique was happening.

The ceremony made me think of the representation of Mary seated on a throne, typical of so many Medieval and Renaissance paintings, but also of the goddess Isis, whose representation in the same vein precedes by several centuries — iconographically speaking — that of Mary, the “Mother of God.”

The welcome short-circuit that I felt almost physically in my brain had to do with womanhood and motherhood — which I see clearly in Archbishop Sarah — being installed in a top position rather than being set aside and praised as exceptional and almost too good to be enmeshed with the everyday exercise of power.

My friend Stefano Sodaro, a Roman Catholic who was present in the Cathedral, was especially moved by the numerous presence of female clerics but, most especially, by the quality of their presence. Not women wearing men’s garb, but people owning their gender and gender expression, yet within the confines of traditional clothing.

Very perceptively, he also observed that the several processions — a peculiar Anglican feature — were not perfunctory but rather comprising “ritualized metaverbal gestures.” Yes — I exclaimed — they are bodily prayers! They symbolize the pilgrimage of life, the moving toward God, the desire of union with the cosmic dance.

Among other things, I was especially moved by the fact that when the ecumenical covenant among Christian churches in Britain was presented — although Roman Catholic and Orthodox bishops were present — the people chosen to speak were two women bishops, which made a triad of women with Archbishop Mullally. After so many centuries of only men speaking in the name of the Church at the highest level, it was a very refreshing moment.

The personal qualities of Rev. Mullally, which may have remained somewhat hidden by the symbolic quality of the whole ritual, were instead at least transpiring from her emotions and her words. After her homily, an anthem by Joanna Marsh was sung, based on the following words by Julian of Norwich:

Without love, we may not live.
And in this love, our life is everlasting.
Love was without beginning, is, and shall be without ending.
All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
Ah! Good Lord, how might it all be well?
For wickedness hath been suffered to rise contrary to the Goodness.
I am the Might and the Goodness of the Fatherhood;
I am the Wisdom of the Motherhood.
I am the Light and the Grace that is all blessed Love.

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Banner Image: “The Virgin Enthroned” Mural Hohnekirche, Soest, circa 1120 CE. Wikimedia Commons.

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Queries for Contemplation

What is your relationship with the mixture of motherhood and power?

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Related Readings by Matthew Fox

One River, Many Wells: Wisdom Springing from Global Faiths

Julian of Norwich: Wisdom in a Time of Pandemic–and Beyond

Original Blessing: A Primer in Creation Spirituality

Creation Spirituality: Liberating Gifts for the Peoples of the Earth

The Hidden Spirituality of Men: Ten Metaphors to Awaken the Sacred Masculine

Alessandra Belloni and Matthew Fox (Foreword), Healing Journeys with the Black Madonna

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