A Question of Loyalty

I note this week, as last time, another incident in the office (perhaps this reflectational fixation has something to do with the impending new year being my last before retirement) when, twenty years ago, a senior executive, even for senior executives, floated a notably bad idea. When it inevitably drifted towards and hit the fan, he, along with other species of the breed like him, ducked for cover. When missiles of consequence were targeted in my direction, a lowly drone, four levels below the instigator on the organizational chart, I reviewed, with my boss, the merits of falling upon a metaphorical sword for the sake of the company. In that instance, I argued the firm had not instilled such a willingness in its employees by acting repeatedly to place its staff in such a dishonorable predicament.

Over the years, I've entertained repeated discussions with colleagues over the question of whether one should 'respect the position,' regardless of the occupant. I find I can not separate the two. It would seem, over the last half of the American 20th century, I'm not alone. For liberals, Viet Nam and Watergate were but the most recent confirmational turning points in establishing a mistrust of persons in authority. There was a even a rather bizarre editorial in the local rag two weeks ago castigating Walter Cronkite for allegedly stabbing troops in the back during Tet; in its perpetual quest to assign grades in non-definitive shades of loyalty and patriotism, Vietnamese anguish rages on, forty years later, with no end in sight.

Over the past five years, we've observed another scene of vehement linguistics, equal the propaganda of the best wars, manufactured by Episcopal seccesionists, the presumed conservatives of the struggle, against persons in authority, such as Archbishops and Bishops, while presumed liberals and progressives, stress loyalty and obedience to the institutional Church, its officers and canons.

As much as I can't separate the person from the position, there is still something instinctive, no matter the situation, that digs deep and calls for a modicum of loyalty despite circumstances. Perhaps it's a remnant of a tribal DNA defense mechanism. When I attended a fundamentalist church, I was appalled by the anti-Americanism espoused within the relentless criticisms hurled at the country. Qualms are also stirred now when someone in our Adult Sunday school castigates America from a position on the Left. There is something buried inside the conscience that reacts to criticism in a way that indicates something is out of order and needs to be put right.

Perhaps loyalty is a matter of timing. I note a book on tape on the life of Fritz Kolbe, a minor German bureaucrat in the Foreign Ministry, who served as an American 'spy in the heart of the Reich.' Up until mid-1943 into 1944, his secrets were highly valued. When it became clear the Germans were losing the war, less so. After 1945, he was shunned, by his countrymen as a tainted carrier of disloyalty, no matter the nature of the regime he betrayed.

In contrast, as observed here last week, Helmuth James Von Moltke, a conspirator in the plot to kill Hitler, executed by the Gestapo, is unambiguously honored, in retrospect, as a hero. Is this partly because he never had to face an aftermath where fellow countrymen might have regarded his actions as traitorous? Perhaps it was deliberate ruse, but I sense, even in Von Moltke's letters to his wife, there was still a 'we,' invested when writing of victorious German battles, as if he couldn't help loyally cheering his country despite working simulataneously to defeat it. (A lesser magnitudinal feeling similar to the one I have when I watch the beloved New York Yankees of my childhood play the downtrodden local Baltimore Orioles -- I want both to win when they don't play each other.) How long was it, in the end, anyway, before the post-war policy of De-Nazification was reversed when the West sought and found that former foes were useful allies in the new Cold War? How would Von Moltke reacted to that unforseen development?

In Voices of Morebath, Eamon Duffy, examines the impact of great events upon everyday parish life through looking at a small village in the English countryside during the Reformation. Prior to the 1530's, the village, as it had for over a millenium, was Roman Catholic. Mid-way through Henry the VIII's reign, it moderately blended old ritual with the liturgy of the oncoming new religion. Changes introduced by reformers, working under Henry's son, Edward VI, were more radical. His sister, Mary, reversed direction, restoring Catholicism, but so brutally, there was a backlash stirred throughout the general populace. Elizabeth I, of course, reversed course again, establishing England as a Protestant nation.

Most poignantly, in one viginette, Duffy writes of parish priest Father Christopher Trychay, who when he, "finally achieves the purchase of a new set of black vestments for requiem masses, the crowning achievement of twenty years painstaking effort, it is hard not to rejoice with him. The sense of loss is palpable, therefore, when the images, vestments and traditional trappings are removed, under the new Protestant order."

How could any priest or parishioner not turn cyncial in times like these? What constant is left to which to be loyal? An answer might be found in noting Father Christopher's tenure of service lasted from 1520 to 1574. In order to accomplish that, he might, indeed, have allowed himself to be carried 'any way the wind blows,' in national affairs over which he had no control, but dedicated himself, pastorally, to the myriad duties a parish priest attends to guide his flock through all their travails and needs of daily life.

Did Father Christopher bury his head in the sand or take care of more important business? Was it his small flock, or as the ghost of Jacob Marley screams to Scrooge every Christmas, "mankind was his business?" Where does the greater loyalty lie? My country right or wrong? Loyalty to the Church, the parish, or 'Spiritual Authority' as discerned through personal discernment? If individual conscience guides you to dissent, is this loyalty of another stripe to a higher calling, or betrayal? Or is it all simply a matter of timing?

I don't know for sure. What I do know is when our re-constituted Episcopal church gathers for its first Christmas Eve service, this Monday night, in reduced material circumstances, what someone might see as deprivation and loss, feels richer and more abundant than ever before, fulfilled by the simple parish pleasures of fellowship, common human, no, extraordinary human, decency, and unbreakable bonds of affection.

The good people of my parish, like those in medieval Morebath, remain honorably loyal to old Mother Church. It's a loyalty that's global, national and local in its implications; globally and nationally, in terms of symbolizing securing justice, dignity and human rights for marginalized peoples by warmly elcoming them in from the cold; locally, in an existence that sustains itself through steadfast goodness, intentional hospitality, and sacrificial charity, values of Jesus Incarnate, who we presume to imitate, humbly and naturally, despite existing in a world of constantly shifting, conveniently personal, loyalties.

Our re-constituted congregational birth and renassiance reflects another ancient local birth that purchased renewal for the entire world. Since taking a baptismal vow of Church loyalty, in 1997, I've opened myself to amazing new possibilities, harboring no questions or doubts on that course, and unlike my worldly career, not reflecting upon the past with dismay and regret, but awakened to a new life, filled with optimism, hope and faith, just like Ebeneezer Scrooge, on Christmas morning.