Back on the agenda: Doing God

I was told yesterday an amusing anecdote relating to Robert Runcie, the last-but-three Archbishop of Canterbury.  Following a Lenten service somewhere or other, he asked people in the congregation what they had given up for Lent.  He was met in the main with predictable responses about alcohol and chocolate.  One man, however, said he couldn’t reveal what he had given up.  “You needn’t be shy”, said Archbishop Robert, kindly, “I’m a priest.”  “Well”, said the man, hesitantly, “to be candid, I’ve given up masturbation.”  Runcie paused momentarily, then smiled.  “In which case”, he replied, “Easter is going to be fun!”

But my favourite quote is this (which I heard him say in a TV interview): “We preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to the Jews, foolishness to the Greeks, and a source of perpetual embarrassment to the English.”  Perhaps the reason I remember this adaptation of St Paul’s words to the Church in Corinth (1 Cor 1:23) is that it captures something of how the English relate to the Gospel, and their supposed tendency to suppress its less comfortable aspects.

I am reminded of this in the context of David Cameron’s speech at the Downing Street Easter reception, in which he revealed something of his own relationship with Christianity.  This has caused some to sneer, partly because they read in his words a crude attempt to curry electoral favour with Christians (which frankly strikes me as rather improbable); but mainly because of their slightly anodyne character.  He speaks warmly about the Church’s social and pastoral work; he praises its priests and its schools, and he reveals something of his own (rather infrequent) religious practice.  He does not mention Christ’s agony on the cross and its meaning.  Not once.

His critics were quickly out of the blocks.  In the red corner, no less a personage than the Reverend Giles Fraser; and in the blue, Tim Stanley, Telegraph journalist and blogger.  Their contributions make some important points and are worth reading.  Their gist is that Christianity isn’t just about being nice or “moral”, about helping people, about warm words.  It’s about something horribly raw, something life-changing, something overwhelmingly, beautifully true.  Of course I agree with them, and am myself impatient of the prissy bloodlessness that sometimes sanitises worship and dilutes witness in the interests of good taste.  True Christian faith has dark as well as light, fast as well as feast, sorrow as well as joy – all of which must be faced and entered into by those who would follow Jesus.

And yet I suspect there are many for whom Cameron’s words will have struck a chord.  Many who have an associational rather than participative relationship with the Church - who are not opposed to it, who in fact are quite supportive of it, but who are nervous of its perceived certainties, silly internal arguments and what Cameron calls (in a subsequent Church Times article) “doctrinal purity”.   These are they who are grateful for the Church’s presence in times of grief and joy, for its benevolent presence in the community, and for the peace to be found, when necessary, in Larkin’s “serious house on serious earth”.  I can see that these might well find the meaning of the Cross difficult to grasp.  It is quite a journey.

Five years ago this month, I was present in St Paul’s cathedral when the Bishop of London hosted a panel discussion in the “margins” of the G20 conference.  On the panel were Gordon Brown (then PM of course) and Kevin Rudd, at that time PM of Australia.  Someone asked Mr Rudd to say something about his own faith.  Describing himself as a “common or garden Christian”, he gave a simple yet eloquent account of the way in which the Gospel informed his own life and work.  When Gordon Brown was asked the same question, he pointedly (and characteristically) avoided it, but referred approvingly to the so-called Golden Rule (do unto others as you would have them do unto you).  This is, of course, not a uniquely Christian precept; but it was the nearest he could get to an expression of personal belief.  I do not believe this was because he had bought into his predecessor’s idea of religion being toxic in a political context.  I wondered, rather, if he had no conventional religious faith, or one that was weak and variable - but was just too hideously embarrassed to say anything that might reveal this.

No doubt full-on, full-blooded Christians will continue to look down on David Cameron’s “religion-lite” (G Fraser).  And, as unrealistic as it may be, I would rather he had said something solid about Jesus and about his own discipleship.  I would rather he went to church more often.  But he has broken a taboo.  The British Prime Minister has said something highly positive about religion, Christianity, the Church of England and his relationship to them.  He has done so publicly and without embarrassment.   We do seem to have moved on.

On God and Government

In June 2011, a little over a year after the present UK government came to power, the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, guest-edited an edition of the New Statesman, regarded as a sort of house-journal of the British political left. (I assume that being "guest-editor" is really an invitation to write the editorial, and does not involve detailed editorial decisions about what other material, and in what form, is included the publication in question. In any case, it was Dr Williams's editorial here that hit the headlines.)  Re-reading it now, it hardly seems worthy of the fuss it caused, but it is worth reflecting, with the benefit of hindsight, why it did.

Getting inside the head of the Coalition may not be an attractive proposition to some; but it is always useful to understand the motivation of those who govern us, even if we find them unsympathetic.  A year in, the Coalition thought, genuinely and without irony, that they were doing a reasonable job under unprecedentedly difficult circumstances.  These included (fairly obviously) the dire economic situation - for the genesis of which, as they still feel a need to remind us, they were in no way responsible - but also the fact that they were obliged to undertake the Herculean task of restoring and rebalancing the British economy as a coalition of two political parties which had been - and au fond clearly still are - mutually inimical.  (I continue to believe this aspect has been seriously and persistently underestimated in judgements about the Coalition's competence, but that is perhaps the subject of another blogpost.)

In addition, and more particularly, they thought that they were open to the contribution of the Churches and other religious groups in a way that the previous government had not been. This was not, I believe, based on a hope that the Church would step in to provide social services whose state funding they were preparing to cut (although they wouldn't say no to that - who would?) but rather that Blair's and Brown's instinctive suspicion of religious interests had led them to miss a trick in terms of what existing community resources could be drawn on in the task of what might be called "social healing".  Already, very positive noises were coming out of the new government about the role of the "faith sector" and many in the Church were encouraged and slightly surprised by the doors that were being opened to them (for example, that of Communities Secretary, Eric Pickles).  No doubt some Conservative ministers continued to view the Church as just another brick in the wall that is the liberal establishment, but there seemed to be goodwill on both sides and the prospect of collaboration was real.  The government did not think the Church had reason to attack it.

As attacks go, it was probably the most devastating of the many to which the Coalition has been subject, partly because it did not come from Labour or any other obvious political source, partly because it was utterly unexpected - and partly because they felt it was completely undeserved.  They were knocked back by it; hurt, even.  Writing in the Church Times a week after Dr Williams's article, Tony Baldry, the Second Church Estates Commissioner (the Conservative MP who answers for the Church in the House of Commons) said he was "dismayed" by the NS editorial, and that ministers simply felt "monumentally misunderstood" by the Archbishop whom they felt had not grasped the scale of the financial difficulties the government faced.  "I am disappointed" he continued, "that less than a year into this Parliament - a Parliament almost certainly of a five-year term - the perception of many MPs sitting on the Coalition benches is that the Church of England is shouting at us from the other side of the street".  If you prick us, do we not bleed?

Now, there's been a lot of water under the bridge since then, and such an attack would no doubt not now occasion the same sense of dismay and disappointment on the part of the government. But that is the point.  The Archbishop's broadside sank the new and modestly promising barque of Church-government co-operation below the water line, and it has since lain where it had before, full fathom five.  The trust which had begun to be built was gone in a day; and the Coalition now expects the Church to attack it as a matter of course.

This state of affairs seemed to be confirmed by the letter which appeared in last Sunday's press signed by 43 bishops, and backed by both Archbishops, opposing the government's plan to cap benefit rises at 1% a year (report here).  Given recent history, the government will not have been surprised to have contempt and condemnation poured upon it from the high ground which the Church claims to occupy.  Iain Duncan Smith and other ministers will no doubt have donned their protective clothing and braced themselves for the usual deluge of liberal-left moralising.

But then something surprising happened.  Something different. Something rather wonderful.  Yesterday, as the inevitable row following the letter rumbled on, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, published this blogpost.   I could hardly believe it.  It is worth reproducing this from the final paragraph: 

"This is not a great, grand political gesture, but a reasoned questioning of something that a lot of people are concerned about.  It is not me saying the government is evil (I am much less cynical than many about politicians of all sides), but that I don't agree on this particular bit of a programme which in general is incredibly brave."

When I read that, I did a little dance.  Not saying the government is evil?  Not being cynical about politicians? Speaking warmly of the Work and Pensions Secretary?  Praising his courage?  You can see where this is going, can't you?  He may feel he and his colleagues can come out of their bunkers and actually talk to you. And where will that lead us?

I profoundly hope this signals a new start in relations between the government and the Church.  We are grown-up people.  We can disagree without rebuking, denouncing and generally rubbishing each other.  We no not need to shout from the other side of the street.  We can do it.  Please say it's true.

On the Danger of Feeling Quite Strongly

"Marmite: you either love it or hate it."  Oh dear!  You see, I don't mind Marmite - which is to say, I don't buy it and it would not be the first thing I would think of to put on a slice of toast, but I can eat it.  You could say that, re Marmite, I'm pretty neutral.  A silly example, not least because the now famous strapline is a mere (if very clever) marketing ploy; but one which neatly encapsulates the - I think, increasing - tendency to push us to one end or other of a spectrum of opinion.


In my own context, the vexed question of women's ordination (to the episcopate, currently) comes to mind.  I know a lot of people who are passionately in favour of it, and some who are firmly opposed.  But there must be people - potentially quite a lot of people - who don't feel strongly about it one way or the other.  Perhaps there are even some who (I know this is outrageous) really don't care.  People like this will be categorised by default as "pro" women bishops since, if you don't specifically object to them, you must be in favour of them.  But, in the eyes of their more committed brethren, their neutrality or indifference is reprehensible, and shows a want of proper awareness of the issues.  I have a lot of sympathy with them, however; and hitherto much inclined to defend the integrity of Not Feeling Strongly.


That was before the issue of same-sex marriage came to the fore, and I learned the danger of Feeling Quite Strongly.  This can manifest itself in various ways, but becoming a Twitter Bore is one of the most obvious.  I happen to feel quite strongly about the issue, for exactly the reason set out here by Jeffrey John, Dean of St Albans:

"I was very struck by David Cameron's statement that he is in favour of same-sex marriage, not in spite of being a conservative but because of being a conservative.  I am not a political animal, but I want to say something very similar as a priest.  I am in favour of same-sex marriage not because I am a wild liberal but because I am instinctively a traditional Anglo-Catholic.  I believe in the sacrament of marriage; I believe we all need a disciplined framework for faith and love; and I believe we all need God's grace and blessing to live by it."

All those who are interested in knowing what I think about this now know.  I realise I have tweeted about it more than any other single issue since I started tweeting. This was brought to a head by the publication earlier this week of what the Church Times calls the Church of England's "tendentious and poorly argued" response to the Government's consultation on the issue.  I was surprisingly upset by both the tone and the content of the response, and expressed my dismay in a tweet which was - slightly alarmingly - retweeted more times than any other I have tweeted.  (This incidentally provoked some interesting replies - not all of them about the theological aspects, if you understand me.)


I've since pretty much stopped, mainly out of respect to those who are kind enough to follow and read me (and who may not agree with me), but also because I suspected I was heading towards Twitter Bore territory.  When the next stage in the saga breaks, I'm sure I will not be able to resist; but for the time being...


But it's been salutary.  It's taught me that I'm probably a poor candidate to stand for the Not Feeling Strongly party. And that, perhaps, on reflection, I do actually hate Marmite.


PS  Please note that I have not included at the head of this post a photographic cliche showing two clasped male hands bearing wedding rings.  You see how I think of you?