God and Mrs Thatcher (47 page)

If ordaining female priests, as traditionalists argued, robbed the Church of England of its place in the universal Catholic Church, then the divisions that engulfed Anglicanism over the issue also robbed it of any pretensions of being a national Church. The admittance of women into the priesthood was no Reformation moment, but had definite parallels with the nineteenth-century Oxford Movement: the last time a wave of Anglicans flocked to the Tiber in protest to the liberal dilution of Anglicanism. The exodus, though, was less than some feared – four bishops and approximately 300 clergy – and far less than in Cardinal Newman’s day. Numerically speaking, this was a loss that the Church could afford, especially given that female priests would within twenty years make up the majority of new ordinands. The compromise of appointing ‘flying bishops’ to administer those parishes unwilling to accept the new reality was a temporary measure rather than a permanent solution, given that the decision over female bishops inevitably loomed on the horizon.

Carey’s successor, Rowan Williams, assumed his role in 2002 and was immediately handed the unenviable task of keeping together not just the Church of England but the whole of the Anglican Communion
over an issue that was to prove even more fractious than female ordination. In 1998, the Lambeth Conference had passed what had seemed an unequivocal resolution affirming heterosexual relationships as the norm and prohibiting the blessing of same sex unions or the ordination of those in a same gender relationship. Bishops had long been ordaining gay priests under a hushed policy of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ but the matter was brought to a head in 2003 when, in defiance of Anglican teaching, the American Episcopal Church consecrated openly gay Gene Robinson as the Bishop of New Hampshire.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, was soon to be confronted with a similar scenario much closer to home when Jeffrey John, a homosexual priest in a celibate relationship, was selected as the Bishop of Reading. The Bishop of Oxford, who had forwarded John, must have been aware of the likely outcry. Trying to coerce the Church in this public way, however, was not the Anglican way of doing things and it was only a matter of time before John withdrew his name.

Williams’s decision to elevate the subject to Communion level was designed to keep everyone on board but it was also a convenient delaying tactic. Anglicans dedicated years to formulating what was called the ‘Anglican Communion Covenant’, but as it did not commit to a policy on homosexuality, only prevented branches of the Communion from acting alone, it failed to address the matter in hand. It also showed Canterbury desperately trying to cling on to its prime place when the numeric strength of other parts of the Communion, particularly in Africa, now weighed heavily against it. Unveiled in 2010, the agreement satisfied neither liberals nor the conservatives and completely contravened the autonomous basis of the Anglican Communion. It was quietly shelved.

Williams, who probably commanded greater respect in the Church than any of his predecessors, was no manager of men. His subtle call for ‘dialogues’ rather than resolution on the pressing subject of women bishops failed to convince even his keenest advocates. This was in
contrast to his successor Archbishop Justin Welby, a former oil executive, who eventually achieved the necessary majority in the Synod not through persuasion but tactics, by hastening the legislative timetable, filling the relevant committees with senior women, and having one-to-one meetings with both supporters and opponents. But more important than any shrewd maneuvering by the archbishop was the public and parliamentary outcry following the initial rejection by the Synod. When it finally passed in July 2014 it was greeted with little fanfare; the perception amongst a broadly disinterested public was not jubilation, rather ‘what took you so long?’

Like the Falklands War in 1982, so Labour’s controversial war in Iraq in 2003 proved to be a galvanising moment for the Church. Rowan Williams was one of the leading critics of the war although he saved his most damning attack for the memorial service in 2009, delivering a sermon that made Runcie’s Falklands’ speech appear rather tame in comparison. Unlike 1982, however, it was people demonstrating on the streets rather than sermons in pulpits which became the lasting emblem of the hostility towards military engagement in the Middle East.

While George Carey had made faint disapproving noises about divorce and homosexuality, his successor did not see much point. ‘I just wonder a bit whether, you know,’ Williams told the
The Guardian
in 2006, ‘when an archbishop condemns something, suddenly in the bedsits of north London, somebody says, “Oh, I shouldn’t be having premarital sex.”’
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Robert Runcie and David Sheppard had taken a similar view, yet the difference now was that hardly anyone challenged it; the successors to Whitehouse and Gillick were nowhere to be heard. Condemnatory language was no longer part of the clergy’s vocabulary as they came to accept the rapid pace at which societal attitudes were changing, particularly on homosexuality; a matter over which not only the Church but also Parliament and the press appeared to be constantly playing catch-up. When the Act allowing gay marriage was passed in 2014, it exposed the gulf that now existed between secular law and the
teachings of the Established Church. In the 1960s, Parliament had been committed to framing the reforming legislation on homosexuality in accordance with what was deemed acceptable to the Church of England. In 2014, the government made sure to consult and consider the Church and other faiths, although this was only to ensure that an appropriate sub-clause was agreed exempting them from the law of the land.

Christians may have been pioneers in the environmental movement, yet as the matter assumed greater urgency and prominence, far greater attention was paid to scientists, environmental campaign groups and the international lobby movement. Few considered that the churches might have something distinct to say about the moral dilemmas concerning human’s stewardship of the earth. This was in stark contrast to nuclear weaponry, which had once been discussed in the same apocalyptic terms.

One matter where the Christian laity certainly made their mark was leading the Make Poverty History and Jubilee 2000 campaigns. Surpassing the Live Aid campaign of 1985, this time around the goal was not public donations but structural changes, by pressuring nations of the G8 to cancel their debts to the developing world. Christians may have made up a significant number of the foot soldiers, yet it was only able to generate public support and ultimately achieve political success with celebrity endorsement.

Rowan Williams, a former member of the Labour Party and CND supporter, was arguably the most left-wing archbishop to occupy Lambeth Palace since William Temple. He was essentially paternalistic in his politics, but his view of capitalism was uncompromising. ‘Every transaction in the developed economies of the West can be interpreted as an act of aggression against the economic losers in the worldwide game,’ he wrote in 2002.
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But just at the time when Britain was crying out for some moral direction in the wake of the 2008 financial crash, the archbishop seemed incapable of providing it. This was not because he was devoid of ideas, passion or boldness, but because Williams, unlike Temple, lacked that crucial ability to convey a comprehensive message to
the un-churched mass. When the Church did attempt to question the moral practices of the financial world – as it did over the proliferation credit loan companies – the Church Commissioners yet again proved an embarrassment. In 2013, Archbishop Welby was forced to retract his bold pledge to ‘sink’ leading credit-lending firm Wonga when it was revealed that the Commissioners had investments in the company. The Church seem to specialise in such PR disasters, never more so than in 2010 when the anti-capitalist movement Occupy set up camp outside St Paul’s. The Canon of the Cathedral, Giles Fraser resigned in opposition to the proposed use of force to evict the protestors, while the Bishop of London in a last-ditch compromise tried to lure them with a promise of a debate under Wren’s dome. The Church was again caught in a conflict of interest, in this case, between a spiritual desire to demonstrate solidarity with the anti-capitalist protestors and a financial need to keep the tourists trickling through its cathedral doors. No one thought of staging a 24-hour evangelical rally outside the cathedral to convert the campers; it might have salvaged some credibility and undoubtedly would have compelled the occupiers to move along.

One positive change has been the growth of the Church’s work in urban communities: a development that can be largely put down to
Faith in the City.
Despite its blackening by the Tory government, the report was treated seriously by those in Whitehall and, as a result, the Home Office set up a consultative group – the ‘Inner Cities Religious Council’ – which soon involved all faith groups. A tale of conflict was replaced with one of increasing cooperation as churches became more adept at applying for central and local government funds and the state ever more appreciative of their role. The Church Urban Fund continued and over the next ten years dished out over £30 million worth of grants to local projects, although its message became noticeably less politicised. This culture of collaboration continued under New Labour with all faith groups seen as vital agencies for fostering, something now dubbed ‘social capital’. It has acquired new energy
in this era of austerity, with parishes the location for food banks and credit unions, but the problems that were there in the 1980s still persist; fears about the loss of autonomy, bureaucratic obstructions and the dilemma of colluding with a government committed to a contraction in public funds.

It is generally considered good practice for the position of Archbishop of Canterbury to alternate between an evangelical and an Anglo-Catholic. The election of Justin Welby in 2013, though, symbolised something more specific: the rise of a new generation of upper-class English evangelicals taking the reins. A product of Eton and Cambridge, Welby was part of a cluster based at the Holy Trinity Brompton in London, home to the renowned Alpha Course; one of the rare evangelical success stories of the so-called ‘decade of evangelicalism’ of the 1990s. Much like the South Bank clergy before them, this group now yield considerable influence within the Church of England, but unlike their 1960s counterparts, they consider the social nature of the Christian faith in much broader terms, as both a Gospel for the rich and the poor. While Rowan Williams was famously arrested at a CND demonstration in the 1980s, Justin Welby, on the other hand, spent the decade negotiating contracts around the world as an executive for Enterprise Oil. With Archbishop Welby now serving on the Parliamentary Commission on Banking Standards, it might that his election finally represents a post-Thatcherite era for Anglicanism.

A statement by the Archbishop of Canterbury still has the potential to rile the government and make the headlines, but the bishops as a group certainly do not hold the same position in public life they once did. Apart from those at Canterbury and York, most Britons would be hard pressed to single out any other Anglican prelate by face or name; this was not the case in the 1980s. It is also unlikely that a Church report would have the same impact today as
Faith in the City
did thirty years ago, given the preponderance of think tanks publishing social investigations and commentary on a weekly basis. As coverage
of religion has become more diverse, coverage of the Church of England has narrowed, with the media only interested when Anglicanism is in knots over sexual morality, faced with financial embarrassment, or at loggerheads with itself or the government. It is now commonplace for the political class to laud ‘localism’ as the solution to a host of problems, be it social fragmentation, bureaucratic centralism or the current disillusionment with institutions. The Church of England, like most faith organisations, represents one of the few public bodies that can truly claim to embody this principle, yet it is precisely its culture of autonomy which makes the Church of England such a messy and complicated business; orthodoxy across all spheres is impossible to enforce and leadership hard to get right. There is some truth in the claim that being Archbishop of Canterbury is as difficult a job as that of the England football manager; expectations are high and critique of their tactics and record are always forthcoming.

The Church maintains its prime place at the centre of Britain’s ceremonial life, most recently witnessed in the celebration of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding, the 2014 commemorations for the centenary of the First World War and, of course, the tempered and respectful funeral service for Britain’s first female prime minister. The nation exceeds at spiritual pageantry and surely one of its chief successes has been the smooth integration of all faiths into national occasions and ceremonies over the last thirty years. The real test of this commitment, however, will undoubtedly come at the coronation of the next monarch.

The Church of England’s constitutional position remains remarkably intact. Canon law is still an official part of the law of the land and must be ratified by Parliament. The Lords Spiritual managed to survive New Labour’s cull of the second chamber and still deliver the morning prayers in Parliament and, while the Synod has complete control over its own affairs, Westminster has supreme authority should it ever wish to exercise it. Writing in the 1990s, Catholic historian Adrian Hastings considered that establishment makes ‘less and less clear sense’.
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In truth, establishment has not made sense for a long time but it says much about the Church and its position that disestablishment has not been a serious political contention since the early twentieth century. What has been challenged is the Church of England’s role as ‘the conscience of the nation’. This was always a flawed concept but is now highly questionable. When, in 2001, the census revealed that over 70 per cent of Britons identified themselves as ‘Christian’, it was greeted with surprise and confusion by the press, politicians and most clergy, who were doubtful of its significance or sincerity. Ten years later in 2011, the figure had dropped to 59 per cent, while those claiming no religion had increased from 15 to 25 per cent. Britons are certainly becoming more irreligious rather than atheistic or agnostic, but the real question is whether the Church of England remains, as Clifford Longley put it in 1976, the ‘place to stay away from, but on which they secretly depend, just as a rebelling adolescent needs to know his parents are still there’.
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