“If pushed, I would describe myself as an Anglican” was how the evangelical Church of England vicar Nicky Gumbel always used to describe himself. I’d say I’m pretty much the same.
Throughout my 40 years of faith, I have attended my fair share of churches. I grew up spending my Sundays in freezing parish buildings, where the congregation was aged largely over 50 and overseen by a stressed parish priest rushing between the six churches in his benefice; I’ve also been a member of vibrant evangelical C of E congregations in London, which have had to offer extra services to meet demand. I’m currently settled somewhere in the middle, in an urban church that’s small enough for people to know you but stuffed with students and families who bring life and urgency, led by a vicar whose interesting, enlightening sermons I could listen to all day.
Along the way I’ve worshipped with Methodist congregations in the US and joined non denominational churches while at university. And yet time and time again, I return to the Church of England for its liturgy; its history; the sense that it is a safe place both spiritually and theologically. The Church of England runs through the veins of my faith; it is not why I am a Christian, but its rites and rituals have always been an integral part of my journey with God. I was baptised into the Church of England, married according to its laws and always expected to be buried by it too. Although lately, I’m not so sure.
It is normal, of course, to feel disappointed by a human-run organisation that seeks to convey something of the mystical might of the Almighty. Grumbling is as much a part of being a member of the C of E as is taking communion. Whether it’s the choice of hymns, the form of liturgy used or whether foil-wrapped biscuits are an indulgence too far at coffee after the service, there will always be something to snipe at, should you choose to indulge.
But this feels different. It is dismaying and heartbreaking to watch an institution of which you are a part, and have always admired and respected, even as you roll your eyes, start to crumble around you. Battered and buffeted – by sexual scandals, historic and recent; by the tightrope-walking required by the wider Anglican communion when it comes to the issue of gay marriage; by the desire to remain relevant as society becomes progressively post-Christian – the good old C of E has revealed its foundations to be somewhat shaky, and its leadership not much better.
Hardly surprising, perhaps, given that it has its roots as a vehicle to allow Henry VIII to marry his second wife, and that its first supreme head was this very un-Christian king.
Post-Reformation, a course was charted that enabled the English church to describe itself as both Reformed and Catholic, still a foundational tenet of the Anglican church. And the strength of the C of E has always been in this breadth: that the charismatic evangelical on one side and the high church priest on the other have been able to find common ground under its wide umbrella. Until recently, it has just about been possible to claim we are all metaphorically, if not literally, singing from the same hymn sheet.
Now, though? The only thing that has united the C of E in recent weeks has been the call for Justin Welby to resign his post, a demand to which Welby was eventually forced to bow – the first Archbishop of Canterbury in the church’s history to quit because of a scandal. Who heads my church now? I’m not entirely sure.
Welby is a good, if flawed, man, who had to resign his post because not to do so would have been more damaging to the C of E. But his stint as ABC has been a disappointing one. Time and again he seems to have focused on the wrong things and made the wrong calls, on everything from shuttering churches during Covid to weighing in awkwardly on Brexit. I don’t envy him the job, but I don’t think he’s made a great fist of it either. He’s been a political Archbishop rather than an overtly spiritual one – inevitable, perhaps, but dispiriting nonetheless.
Should our senior clergy weigh in on matters political? Many would argue not. I don’t see how they can’t, if they’re asked to take a side. But because church and state are connected in this country it becomes complicated.
Religion is, broadly, treated appallingly by politicians across the board. Many make no attempt to hide their disdain and disbelief that people whose faith is also their job should be part of the governance of the country; others hijack religion to espouse their cause in what feels like the cheapest of politicking. Meanwhile, only 1 per cent of young people say they belong to the C of E and just 2 per cent of the population regularly worship in its churches. The majority of people no longer look to clerics for ethical guidance; the clerics themselves find their moral compasses clouded by dogma. The whole thing feels tenuous, and exhausting, and to have lost sight of what, surely, Christian faith is all about: the saving grace of Jesus Christ.
Is it time for the Church of England to disentangle itself from what is surely its most onerous partner, the state? To no longer contort itself to fit its inherently radical theology of grace into the confines of contemporary society – and in turn to be able to autonomously decide its own future? Our societal history may be rooted in the Judeo-Christian tradition – but it’s impossible to define ourselves as a Christian country any more: in the last census, for the first time, less than half the country identified as such. The Church of England finds itself in an agonising position as a result – and more at war with itself than it ever has been. Perhaps it needs to be cut free in order to thrive – or at least to determine its own way forward.
“Though we cannot think alike, may we not love alike?” asked the great Methodist preacher John Wesley. “May we not be of one heart, though we are not of one opinion? Without all doubt, we may.”
I hope, and pray, that my dear C of E might return to such a gracious way of faith. Even if it’s not called the Church of England any more.
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