I recently had a piece in the Tablet, looking at the split over the ordination of women. An old story on one level, but of course the likelihood is that a new form of ‘alternative episcopal oversight’ will soon be set up for evangelicals. Liberals should reject the idea of ‘mutual flourishing’ and plainly say that the Act of Synod was a mistake, that a Church needs unity. You can read it below.
Also pasted below is my recent Spectator article suggesting that the evangelicals should not be indulged. The Church should have the guts to pursue its liberal reform on homosexuality without repeating the mistake of 1993, allowing a separate structure to take shape. In fact the below is a fuller version than was published. It says that the C of E has a core tradition, that is relatively new – liberal Anglo-Catholicism. It just needs to stand up for itself, and that involves defying the postliberals – as I hint, this core tradition is almost embodied by Rowan Williams and Giles Fraser, but they are both led astray by the spurious radicalism of defying ‘the liberal project’.
Can a church live with division?
(A version of this was published in The Tablet, 1 April)
Following Synod’s approval of the blessing of gay couples, the Church of England is heading for a formal division over homosexuality. The Church of England Evangelical Council (CEEC) has called for ‘new structures’ and ‘good differentiation’.
This is not entirely virgin territory for the Church of England. Thirty years ago, after the decision to ordain women, it developed new structures to enable dissenters to stay within the Church. So will another new network of bishops have to be set up, to cater for the evangelicals?
How did the last split go? Or rather, how is it sill going? Does it show that the Church of England has the ability to accommodate strongly opposed viewpoints? Or does it serve as a warning – that trying to please everyone leads to a debased version of ecclesiastical authority?
The old rift has been in the news a couple of times this year. In January a traditionalist was appointed a diocesan bishop. And then two new traditionalist bishops were consecrated, in a ceremony in Canterbury that conspicuously sidelined the local archbishop.
Anyone need a quick recap? In 1992, the Church decided to ordain women to the priesthood (but not the episcopate). And the following year, the Act of Synod allowed traditionalists to create a new episcopal structure, with ‘flying bishops’. This allowed them to avoid receiving the sacraments from a woman – or even from a bishop who had ordained women. In 2014 Synod voted to ordain women to the episcopate.
Surely the progressive cause had now fully triumphed? But it didn’t feel like that. Though only a small minority (about five per cent of parishes), the traditionalists remained bullishly in place, and retained the power to rattle the majority. Traditionalist Anglo-Catholic clergy formed a new grouping, the Society of St Wilfrid and St Hilda, which seemed to give them new energy. It might seem odd that such a small dissenting body can bother the majority, but their influence is inflated by the semi-traditionalism of mainstream evangelicals. A large and rich chunk of the Church is on the fence: it doesn’t see the issue as central, so doesn’t require alternative oversight, but it invariably favours male leadership.
But it’s the Anglo-Catholics who are the most paradoxical dissenters. For they have a ‘high’ theology of the Church, and insist that bishops are crucial symbols of the Church’s unity. And yet they also feel obliged to reject the full authority of the episcopacy, when it ordains women. As the late Judith Maltby argued in an essay of 1998, ‘the concept of extended episcopal oversight reflects, surely, a more radical departure from a catholic understanding of orders than the extension of that order to include women.’
I pay a visit to the Bishop of Fulham, Jonathan Baker, who oversees London’s Anglo-Catholic traditionalists. Despite his title he’s to be found in Holborn: the complicated arrangement sometimes involves some geographical slippage. How well does he feel the Church has coped with this division – does it basically work? ‘I feel the Church has reached a creative and fruitful place’, he tells me. ‘The arrangement enables us to offer a pretty thorough degree of episcopal minority to our parishes, and also to ensure the succession of bishops, as we’ve seen with the recent consecrations. From my perspective it works, in general, very well – especially in London. But it’s not a perfect system, and some would take a different view of its general success.’
But doesn’t a Church need a single united episcopacy? Isn’t alternative episcopal oversight deeply un-Anglican? ‘There have been many examples in the history of the Church, the whole Church, where ordinary jurisdiction has been separate from order and sacramental ministry. For example abbots and abesses have exercised oversight without being in episcopal orders, and in the history of the Church of England there are all sorts of quite quirky examples, such as Westminster Abbey.’ But these examples don’t arise from a theological disagreement, surely? But perhaps he doesn’t hear my question. ‘So the current arrangement is unusual, but it’s a worked-out solution, or attempted solution, to deal with the fact that within one Church you have two expressions of full communion, but you still have one structure. So, novel perhaps, but not entirely novel.’
The awkwardness of the arrangement is especially acute if a diocesan bishop is a traditionalist. For in theory he oversees women priests in whose ministry he does not fully believe. Until this year there was just one such bishop, in Chichester, but in January a traditionalist Anglo-Catholic, Philip North, was appointed diocesan bishop of Blackburn. Back in 2017 he was appointed to Sheffield, but local opposition forced him to withdraw. I suggest to the bishop that surely the problem still remains, that women priests of the diocese will be overseen by someone who denies the authenticity of their orders. ‘I think the key point here is that Philip North has been serving in the diocese for many years and has earned huge respect from all parts of the Church, including female clergy. I think he would have become a bishop whatever his position on this matter, such are his abilities and gifts.’ But a bishop is meant to affirm the validity of all the priests of the diocese – so isn’t there a contradiction here? ‘No, I don’t think there’s a contradiction. He will give full-blooded and committed care to all his clergy, female and male.’
Is there room in this Church for another split, or ‘impairment of communion’? Will the divide over homosexuality be a repeat of this divide, but on a bigger scale? ‘Well, they are different issues – one is about order, one is about teaching. So I think the issues are different and the response will be different, though there may be some learning from our situation. I’m sure there will be secure pastoral accommodation so that consciences are respected. My instinct, and those I look after, is always for that movement towards greater unity. Fractures in the Church happen quickly and take a long time to heal.’
I raise the recent consecrations of a new traditionalist bishop at Canterbury Cathedral. Because only Society bishops performed the actual consecration, all laying hands on the new man, it looked as if the traditionalists don’t even observe the authority of the Archbishop of Canterbury, I suggest. ‘I wouldn’t agree with that. The consecration demonstrated the principle of one structure, and two expressions of communion. The Archbishop of Canterbury presided over the whole event, and the bishop of Chichester clearly received from him a mandate to consecrate, and the new bishop made his oath of canonical obedience to the Archbishop.’
After our chat I pop in to his church, St Andrews, which feels like a well of timeless quiet. There’s an austere, old-fashioned aura, a clean contrast to the secular normality of central London. Maybe traditionalist churches have a stronger sense of ‘otherness’, I reflect – but how is one to distinguish the valid spiritual yearning from a nostalgic sexism?
For the other side of the picture I go for coffee with Rev. Martine Oborne of Women and the Church (WATCH). She does not agree that the Church has handled the matter as well it as it could have. Though she seems a cheerful sort of person, her face takes on a weary expression as soon as we get stuck in. ‘It’s all so exhausting, having to call out the subtle sexism at work in the Church, having to assert one’s validity as a priest, over and over again.’
Though she has some specific complaints about the way that the division is managed, it is clear that her real beef is with the fundamental set-up, with the sheer fact that the traditionalists are still around, casting doubt on the validity of women’s ministry. But she’s uncomfortably aware that she’s not really allowed to say so, that all clergy officially believe in the ‘mutual flourishing’ of all parts of the Church, and have agreed to exercise ‘gracious restraint’. ‘The situation forces us either to keep quiet or to sound like we’re complaining, fighting for our rights. If we dare to complain, we’re seen as nags, scolds. And we sound like we’re campaigning for our rights, in a secular way.’
Though WATCH objected to the recent appointment of Philip North, the tone was wearily accepting. I wonder why there was no local protest, as there was in 2017? ‘It’s a good question. It’s partly that the Church managed it carefully, and didn’t give opponents any warning. And the row over gay blessings served as a smokescreen.’ It was a bit of an ambush? ‘Something like that, yes.’ What annoys her is that the Church emits a flow of warm words about unity and good relations, and discourages open and honest debate about the theological problems involved. ‘One anomaly is that women serving under this bishop have no right to ask for alternative oversight by a bishop who actually sees them as fully valid priests. It’s a clear double-standard.’
Another specific complaint is that traditionalist parishes often fail to make their allegiance clear to parishioners. ‘You have to be well versed in church politics to find out that your local priest is opposed to the ordination of women – there’s so much jargon to confuse the issue. So we are calling for greater transparency, so people know what these parishes believe.’
But at root the problem is the Church’s toleration of an alternative structure isn’t it? So the Act of Synod was a mistake? ‘It was an emergency measure, to keep a large sector of the Church on board at a time of crisis, but the long-term consequences weren’t thought through. There should really have been a sunset clause, or at least the chance to rethink. But instead division was set in stone.’ So how might change come? ‘Maybe through parliament: MPs could vote for a time-limit to the Church’s exemption from the Equality Act. And that would address gay marriage as well.’ But she is aware that even saying this offends against the rules: both sides are meant to wish the other side’s perpetual flourishing, at least outwardly.
Finally I ask Oborne what she thinks of The Vicar of Dibley. She shrugs, she has no strong opinion on the long-running sitcom. But I think it matters, I tell her. It subtly presented women priests as jolly lightweights, whose virtues (empathy, good humour) are more secular than religious, more like good mums than channels for holy mystery. And isn’t that a fundamental problem? Women priests are easily boxed as more worldly than male ones, more in tune with the culture around them. This is somewhat inevitable, for their existence does reflect contemporary social politics. And so, in contrast, the opponents of women priests have an aura of austere, counter-cultural otherness.
And, good liberal though I mostly am, I admit there is something alluring about that aura. Religion needs to be set apart from normal culture, and social conservatism is a sort of short-cut to this. Maybe the Church should have anticipated this, and insisted that such a difficult innovation needs to be executed with ruthless fullness. But I suppose that this isn’t the Anglican way. The result is that a question-mark still hovers over the authenticity of women priests, in an objective sense. While the Church enables opposition to their ministry, their validity is questionable.
Does the C of E need the Evangelicals?
(a version of this was posted on the Spectator site April 8)
The Church of England is in for an explosive summer. In February Synod decided to allow the blessing of gay couples, and hinted that it will lift the ban on actively gay clergy. Conservative evangelicals have warned the bishops that if they really go ahead with this they will create a split that dwarfs the division over the ordination of women. The bishops have accepted that this is on the cards: a ‘settlement of differentiation’ is likely to be needed, meaning new structures for the conservatives. Now there’s an awkward wait before the bishops’ next announcement, expected by July.
They can hardly back down – for one thing there is a lobby of MPs, led by Ben Bradshaw, urging bolder reform. But nor can they pretend that conservative opposition is melting away: a couple of weeks ago the Church of England Evangelical Council, which is no minor pressure group, issued a punchy statement entitled ‘Why We Are Compelled to Resist’. If the Church goes ahead with its plans, the group will denounce the innovations as heretical, and insist that it only remains ‘in full communion with those Provinces of the Anglican Communion who also maintain the biblical and historic teaching of the church catholic.’
On one level, what’s new? The evangelicals have been semi-separate for decades. Some of the large evangelical churches have often refused to pay in to the central funds, in protest at the leadership’s failure to defend traditional sexual teaching. More widely, many evangelical churches will only invite the right sort of bishop to come and do a confirmation service. The split is already a reality, but half-hidden under a veil of strained politeness. Now that veil is being pulled aside. One leading evangelical tells me of a significant development: evangelical ordination candidates have begun to question whether their local bishop has the authority to ordain them. ‘The bishops don’t quite seem to know what’s coming’, he says. ‘It will be a new version of women’s ordination, but squared. For that wasn’t a primary issue for evangelicals. This is.’
It’s a deeply sad moment for the national Church, according to most commentators; a failure of the Church to hold its factions together. But I’m finding it hard to keep my sad face on. As I see it, this is a major opportunity for mainstream Anglicanism to renew itself.
But surely evangelicalism has always been an important part of the Church of England? Yes, but it has become a destabilising force, a liability. And it is less indispensable than it thinks.
Evangelicals are different from other Anglicans. And very proud of it. If they have finally decided that they are too pure and righteous for the national Church, well forgive me for not being entirely depressed.
I first noticed this form of religion when a recent old-boy came back to give a talk at school. To illustrate his message he drew a diagram, with stick-men, about how the Cross saves us from sin and hell. And I remember thinking: that’s odd, that he wants to turn religion, a thing of ancient wisdom and mystery and drama and bottomless dusty beauty, into a sort of chemistry lesson. Later on, as a muddled liberal Christian student, I was half-impressed by their clarity, and their stunning willingness to admit they were virgins. But their presence made it harder for me to come out as a Christian: I didn’t want people thinking I was that sort of Christian. I gradually got over this, but the more I saw of them the stronger the impression grew: this form of religion stood out from the rest of the Church of England, like a sore thumb, or like raised prayer-hands at Evensong – and it revelled in the fact.
Its origins lie in Calvinism, the English version of which was known as Puritanism. A reformed Church must stick to biblical teaching, said the Puritans, which entails certain clear rules about ‘godly’ behaviour. You are not a real Christian by virtue of your baptism: you have to sign up to a rigid version of orthodoxy. This is the only coherent alternative to Roman Catholicism, they insisted, and they had a strong case, such was the uncertainty of the post-Reformation world. But England didn’t want this sort of coherence and clarity. It wanted a less coherent national religion that retained some Catholic elements alongside some Puritan elements, and also incorporated some of the new liberalism that emerged in the seventeenth century. This farrago somehow endured.
It wasn’t pretty. There was no golden age of Anglican theology, when the different elements harmonised. To start with, all religious zeal was muffled by gouty Tory squires. Then the Puritan spirit, modified by Wesley, shook things up, and the first Christians to be known as ‘evangelicals’ emerged. The emphasis was now on emotional transformation, being born again, and also on humanitarianism: their zeal helped to end the slave trade. Then the Anglo-Catholic spirit shook things up, and launched a new respect for sacramental worship, and a new affirmation of the urban poor. Both renewal movements were kept in check, and both had to accept the growing political and social liberalism of the Church. The frail alliance was partly kept together by national and imperial confidence.
In the recent decades of decline, the evangelicals have been doing relatively well. They developed networks and youth movements and summer camps and marketing campaigns, making the old-fashioned parish look very crumbly. But their success has been a poisoned silver lining for the Church. For evangelical dynamism cannot renew the Church as a whole. Its energy is too counter-cultural; it presents Christianity as an identity in sharp contrast to the surrounding culture, it insists that a true Christian is marked out by brave dissent from liberal views on sexual morality (see Farron and Forbes). An established Church cannot foreground such energy.
Well, they might rile liberals like me, but shouldn’t one be a bit pragmatic? If they now withdraw their dynamism from the Church, won’t it be weaker than ever? In some ways yes: it will have a yet another funding crisis, and will be mired in legal disputes with semi-departing evangelicals. But amid this new landscape, I suggest, something surprising will be revealed.
Beneath the gloomy headlines of empty pews and bitter rows, mainstream Anglicanism has been quietly solidifying. Anglo-Catholicism and liberalism have become firmly wedded together. The Church now has a solid theological core – something it lacked throughout its centuries of seeming success. The question is whether it can find the boldness to assert itself.
In the mid twentieth century, Anglo-Catholicism still felt alien to most Anglicans, with its enthusiasm for ‘smells and bells’. It seemed at odds with Protestant simplicity, rationality, progress. This changed in the 1960s with the success of the Parish Communion movement, which called for the eucharist to be the central act of worship in every parish. Before that, a parish might only celebrate it a few times a year. Sacramental worship became mainstream, not just the preserve of high church types. Even the evangelicals accepted, in theory, that it was the new normal.
Soon after this, liberal theology underwent a change. It looked like a collapse, but it was actually a healthy pruning. For most of the century, a reformist liberalism, very close to the humanism of the Enlightenment, had seemed cutting-edge. The old doctrines had to be ‘de-mythologised’, adapted to modern thought. The trend was typified by Bishop John Robinson’s book of 1963, Honest to God. In the 1980s, serious theologians began to reject such ideas, and learned to root their thought in the distinctive practices of the Church. But a political and cultural liberalism remained in place, a deep respect for the tradition of the liberal state.
So a moderate Anglo-Catholicism joined forces with a moderate liberalism. It might not sound like the sexiest coupling the history of ideas, but it means that the Church finally has a solid core. The obvious representatives of this new centre are women priests, for they embody the Church’s social liberalism, and their ministry is more fully encouraged by the Anglo-Catholics than the evangelicals. Also, they have forced Anglo-Catholics to decide if they are liberals or not – and the vast majority have made the right decision.
Most Anglican academic theologians are also sympathetic to this new core, but here the picture is complicated. For the most attention-grabbing thinkers of recent decades have attacked liberalism in sweeping terms – a modish posture, often rooted in stale Marxism, that is deeply unhelpful. (Rowan Williams almost embodies the positive shift I’m describing, but is held back by this academic defect, and the same goes for Giles Fraser.)
Some will say that the Church needs the energy of the evangelicals, that their flexibility and instinct for adaptation are more important than ever. I’m not so sure. Unless attempts at innovation are rooted in the fullness of Anglican tradition, they will wither, and cause division. The ‘fresh expressions’ movement proves the point: it became dominated by the standard evangelical idea of mission, and threatened the primacy of the local parish. A spirit of innovation must arise from the Church’s core, its liberal Anglo-Catholic core.
I hope I do not seem hostile to evangelicalism. I simply see it as a different form of Christianity from my own, like Roman Catholicism or Pentecostalism. Good luck to it. But let it no longer claim to be central to the Church of England. Let the Puritans depart in peace.