Know the Truth

True, an intriguing future beckoned, although aspects of it terrified me. Not the actual work, because I was comfortable with a leadership role and the speaking and teaching that went with it. But I was ignorant of the secondary aspects of being a Bishop – what one had to wear, what the expectations were, and what were the different responsibilities in a diocesan team.

Of course there were people I could rely on for advice and information. The suffragan Bishop of Taunton, Nigel McCulloch, a young and very popular Bishop, offered his assistance readily, as did David Hope, the Bishop of Wakefield, later to become Bishop of London and then Archbishop of York. Both were from the Catholic wing of the Church, and were on hand to show this evangelical what to wear and when to wear it. Not that copes, mitres and chasubles bothered me much. Although I preferred to dress simply, my attitude was that if this was what the Church wanted me to wear, then I was quite prepared to don the unfamiliar for the dignity of the office.

First I had to be ordained for this ministry, and a date was fixed for 3 December 1987 at Southwark Cathedral. Up to that point I had not met Robert Runcie, the 102nd Archbishop of Canterbury. From a distance Robert seemed a reserved and lofty figure. He had the reputation in evangelical circles of being wobbly and indecisive on doctrinal and ethical issues, and the only contact I had had with Lambeth Palace as a Principal was distinctly unpromising. An able ordinand had resigned over the statements of David Jenkins, the then Bishop of Durham. As a result I had written to the Archbishop expressing my concern that a Bishop of the Church should express his doubts so freely about the resurrection of Christ. I received what was obviously a standard letter, signed by a staff member, to the effect that David Jenkins’s views did not state the mind of the Church. I was not impressed.

I met Robert for the first time on the evening before my consecration. The convention is for the family of the new Bishop to stay overnight with the Archbishop. Our large family was delighted and excited to accept this kind invitation, and it turned out to be a wonderful occasion. Before dinner Robert and I had a thirty-minute conversation, and my opinion of him changed as we spoke together. I could not fail to notice his evident spirituality, his wry sense of humour and his distinct love of people. But he seemed terribly tired and preoccupied.

The reason for this became apparent during dinner. I was sitting next to Lindy Runcie, whose direct and candid observations on every subject made her an entertaining companion. Looking across at Robert, she suddenly exploded and said, ‘Poor Robert is under such pressure. That wretched man!’ As the adjective was clearly not aimed at her husband, I asked her what she meant. Out poured a great deal of vitriol directed at Dr Gary Bennett, then Chaplain of New College, Oxford, and a leading Anglo-Catholic theologian, who she believed was the author of the Preface to the new edition of Crockford’s Clerical Directory, which by tradition was written anonymously by a prominent cleric. The Preface was critical of Robert’s liberalism, and accused him of packing the House of Bishops full of his cronies. As I was hardly one of these I could barely contain my mirth, but Robert and Lindy were obviously most distressed. This was my first encounter with the demands of the Archbishop’s office and the way criticism could work its way under one’s skin, causing real emotional pain.

The service in Southwark Cathedral the following day lived up to my expectations. Robert led it very well, and Canon Roy Henderson, Chairman of Trinity Council, gave an inspiring address. I had asked the cathedral if the college music group could lead some devotional songs during the offering of communion, and they did so very beautifully indeed.

The press were out in force after the consecration to cover what seemed to be a developing civil war in the Church. Robert was besieged by photographers and cameramen, and journalists clamoured for him to give his view of the damaging Preface, and to offer an opinion about the identity of the author. Of course he declined because it was not the time or place to comment upon such a matter.

If the Preface did originate from Gary Bennett, it was unworthy of a writer of such distinction. As it happened I knew him well, and liked him, although we had clashed ideologically as fellow members of a Commission which had been brought together to examine the theology of the Episcopate, and the Preface’s style was certainly similar to his. It was a commonly held view that Gary was ambitious to be a Bishop, and very bitter towards the two Archbishops, who he felt were blocking his chance of higher office. The story was to end tragically a week later, when Gary committed suicide after having been exposed as the author of the Preface on the front page of the Sun newspaper.

Looking back on that episode, which brought such shame on the Church of England, I doubt very much if there ever was a liberal conspiracy. The Crown Appointments system does not operate like that. Archbishops have considerable but not final influence in deciding which names are put forward for appointment. The truth was possibly more mundane – that the Anglo-Catholic tradition had declined from greatness to a less pivotal position in the Church. Was it any longer able to provide men with the ability and vision needed to lead churches into mission and life? In my judgement it now appeared to be obsessed with issues which were of secondary importance to most members of the Church, such as the ordination of women. It was a tradition in crisis.

What kind of Bishop did I want to be? This question was very much in my mind from the moment the offer had come from the Crown. I spent many hours considering it and praying over it, and two conclusions emerged.

First, all I could offer was myself in all my humanity. I was overcome by the thought of being a Bishop and there was every reason for trepidation. Few people from my kind of background ever came this close to senior office in the Church. With genuine humility I could only offer my unworthiness and weakness, and ask that this sacrifice of love might be pleasing in God’s sight. The day before my consecration as Bishop I had read 2 Chronicles 1, and had written in my private diary the following words: ‘Reading from 2 Chron. 1 this morning the words leapt out: God said “Ask what I shall give you?” Solomon replied: “Wisdom and knowledge to go out and to come in before thy people.” How relevant! I feel I need this too but combined with an unflinching faith in the power of the Gospel and an undying love of God. Only if I truly love Him will I love others.’

Second, I believed I was called to be a Bishop-in-mission. As I considered what was expected of me, I felt dissatisfied with the traditional role of being a Bishop, just as the traditional role of being a clergyman had not satisfied me in Durham. It was assumed that I would pastor clergy, confirm and institute them into new work and generally oversee the work of the diocese. There would certainly be enough to do even if I restricted myself to such a traditional role. Bath and Wells was one of the larger dioceses, with about 590 churches and over three hundred clergy, four hundred Readers and many thousands of active Anglicans. But the traditional role would not satisfy me – for several reasons.

For a start, it was clear that though the Church was still very influential in Somerset community life, it was not attracting enough people to regular worship. A different approach was required if we were to reverse years of decline in a changing society. An equally serious reason was that the clergy seemed embattled and ill-equipped to handle a different kind of community from the one they been trained for – one in which they now had to go out and sell their wares. Trained, by and large, for traditional ministry, in which pastoring and leading worship were the major elements, they were now required to build Christian congregations and lead others to faith. Though they were highly dedicated and very able, their sense of self-worth was being undermined by lack of affirmation in the community and poor responses to their overtures. It was obvious that I needed to build up the confidence of the clergy and people, and lead by example.

I also knew that I had much to learn myself, and there were many wise and experienced priests who could help me to be a trustworthy and faithful Bishop. I did not have to wait long for a few useful lessons to arrive. My very first confirmation service was at High Ham, a small village about nine miles from Wells. It was a Deanery confirmation service, which meant that fifteen or so clergy would be there to see this new Bishop take his first service. I was keen to do my best, and prepared well. Everything ran smoothly until the very end. The choir preceded me to the door of the church, and I turned to face them to say the words: ‘Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,’ to which the response was: ‘In the name of Christ. Amen.’ As I started the sentence, I realised that my pastoral staff was well and truly jammed in a grating at my feet. Laughter rang around the church as I, mortified, tugged in vain to free it. It stood upright and defiant in the grating until someone strong enough was able to release it.

Disrobing in the vestry, I had a chat with Peter Coney, who was Diocesan Communication Officer. ‘Peter,’ I said, ‘I am keen to learn. How did it go?’

Tenderly, Peter held my arm and said, ‘Bishop George, you were appointed because the Church wanted you – not somebody else.’

That was the most comforting thing anybody could have said. His message was very clear: ‘Be yourself and use your gifts. Don’t try to be something other than yourself.’

If Peter was a valued friend who helped me to relax into the ministry of Bishop, Douglas White helped me to see the ministry through the eyes of clergy. Douglas was eighty-four years of age when in my first year I took a service in his church near Yeovil. He had been incumbent since 1948 or so, and therefore was not bound by the official retirement age of seventy, which came into force in 1976. He had married Yolanda, a bride of thirty-seven, at the age of sixty-four, and they had two teenage girls. Even though he was going blind he was determined to resist all attempts to move him from office. We robed in his kitchen and prepared to go across the beautifully-kept churchyard to the lovely small church just thirty yards away.

‘Bishop,’ said Douglas, turning to me, ‘may I say just one thing? I really am not used to Bishops being around. Do forgive me if anything goes wrong in the service.’

I was touched by this, and suddenly became aware that Bishops could overawe even the most experienced of godly priests. Very moved by his transparent honesty, I held his arm and said, ‘Douglas, if you only knew the fear of this very inexperienced Bishop every time I take a service. Come on. Let’s go out there and face them together.’

And we did. The church was packed, and it was obvious that Douglas was a devoted clergyman, loved by the village and very popular with children. The service was not without its comical moments. Douglas was more blind than he let on, and he relied on his memory to get him through the Book of Common Prayer. Now and again his memory would fail him, and members of the congregation would assist. He began: ‘Dearly beloved brethren, the scripture moveth us in … er … in, er …’ From the back came a loud whispered voice prompting ‘sundry places’. Others picked this up, and ‘sundry’ rang out from several pews. Douglas then continued: ‘Oh yes, sundry places.’

There was a lovely symbiosis between Douglas and his congregation, of the kind expressed perfectly by the seventeenth-century poet and priest George Herbert in The Country Parson: ‘So the country parson who is a diligent observer and tracker of God’s ways, sets up as many encouragements to goodness as he can, both in honour, and profit, and fame that he may, if not the best way, yet any way, make his parish good.’ That was Douglas’s way. He died in harness at the age of ninety-two, full of years and full of faith.

Douglas’s fear made me realise that one is put on a pedestal as a Bishop, and that it was important to hold on to two crucial facts: one should never demean or undermine the office by one’s behaviour; but at the same time one should never hide behind the office or use it to promote one’s own importance. Douglas’s statement led me to recall what someone had said to me following my consecration: ‘George, from now on two things will happen to you. You will never lack for a good meal, but from now on, no one will ever tell you the truth.’ I was determined to have my ear close to the ground, so that I could learn – and face the truth, whatever it was.

Being a missionary Bishop means being a missionary with others. It was therefore crucial to assemble a team of lay people around me, and to offer my help to parishes and deaneries. I invited Brian Pearson, a non-stipendiary priest who was then Vice Principal of a college in Brighton, to join me as a Chaplain and to head up the team. We then secured the services of a group of musicians, dramatists and other lay leaders to assist. Thus commenced a programme of what became ‘Teaching Missions’, of which there were fifteen during the nearly three years I was Bishop of Bath and Wells.

The format was nearly always the same. They would last about five days, and each evening there was a main teaching slot which I would give in the context of a lively and varied programme. Each day there would be a variety of activities which included visits to schools, youth events and meetings with local men’s and women’s groups. I made it clear that a Teaching Mission was not an evangelistic event. Nevertheless, I was convinced that the faith could be taught in such a way that people would understand it and form a judgement. It was my hope that by teaching the faith, and not ducking the challenging questions that thinking people would ask, they might hear the fresh and hopeful tones of the gospel.

So it proved. The very first one at the parish church in Wellington was memorable for both the congregation and my fledgling team. The Anglo-Catholic church was rather fearful of the word ‘mission’, and Father Terry Stokes, the parish priest, had urged me to bear this in mind. I had no difficulty in assuring him that my approach would be cerebral, not emotional, and that it was my desire to fit in with the tradition of the parish which hosted the mission. We hit upon the theme ‘A Faith to Have and to Hold’, based on words from the marriage service, which formed a wonderful centre around which the events in schools, clubs and pubs could cohere. I was told that it proved to be a turning point in the life of this church, encouraging faith and deepening confidence in its mission.

Teaching Missions became a vital lifeline between me and local communities, reminding me constantly that the role of a Bishop has to be measured by his relationship with society at large, not merely his diocese and church. I found them so valuable for my own ministry, and for bringing new life and confidence to local churches, that as Archbishop I continued to lead missions in the diocese of Canterbury.

A Bishop is of course more than merely a local Bishop. He is a national figure, at once a performer on the wider stage. I was keen to develop the national ministry, even though it would be some years before my turn came to be introduced into the House of Lords. Through my reading I had come across the scathing comment of Archbishop Benson, written a hundred years earlier, on Bishops who never ventured forth from their dioceses: ‘Bishops of their dioceses were not so much Bishops of England.’

I had already accepted the Archbishops’ invitation to chair the Faith and Order Advisory Group, the Church’s central committee for handling theological issues related to unity. This gave me an immediate entrée into the wider ecumenical scene both at home and abroad. I knew there would be other invitations for national ministry, but for the moment I was happy to wait.

However, membership of the House of Bishops was a major commitment. I disapproved of clergy isolating themselves from the wider Church by not attending Synods and diocesan events, and had expressed myself forcefully on that point at times. I therefore believed it was my duty to make the House of Bishops a priority in my diary. It was later to be a sadness during my time as Archbishop that this commitment was by no means universally shared. There were always a few who took their attendance at meetings of the House of Bishops lightly, and this seemed to me symptomatic of the state of the clergy generally – a half-hearted commitment to the institutional Church, suggesting a weak understanding of a theology of obedience.

Notwithstanding this, I quickly came to the conclusion that if one’s commitment to the House of Bishops was formed with reference to the actual quality of its meetings, truancy was entirely understandable. They seemed to be arranged so as to forbid participation. Organised as it was then by Derek Pattinson, Secretary General of Synod, conduct of business seemed limited to the two Archbishops, a few senior Bishops, and those who were bold enough to speak up and who sat close enough to the front to understand what was going on. The rest sat in the semi-circular chamber facing a large table behind which the two Archbishops, Derek Pattinson and a few lay staff sat. There were no microphones to aid communication.

Robert made no secret of the fact that the House of Bishops bored him, and allowed the Archbishop of York, John Habgood, to take the lead on the majority of occasions. John had a very quiet voice, which added to the already overwhelming atmosphere of an impenetrable club in which new members could barely hear what was said, let alone contribute. Consequently few did, in many cases because they were too terrified to speak up unless invited to do so.

I remember being greatly struck in my early days in the House of Bishops by three of my senior colleagues whose rhetorical skills were outstanding, but were not always employed constructively. David Jenkins, Bishop of Durham, could always be relied upon to speak entertainingly and often brilliantly, but I felt that he had spent so many years in academic teaching that his concerns were not always grounded in real life and the experience of people in his diocese. Bill Westwood, Bishop of Peterborough, was popular with the media and was also effective in raising emotions in the House, but he worried me by his tendency to pour doubt on all diocesan efforts to raise funds or enthusiasm. ‘We have tried it in Peterborough and it doesn’t work,’ seemed to be his constant and discouraging refrain. I recall arriving at a House of Bishops late one day because of a train delay, and asking Bill, ‘How’s it going?’ To which he replied, ‘All right, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to be a Christian here.’ I thought that was a little rich. David Lunn, Bishop of Sheffield, a fierce defender of the Prayer Book and of Catholic life, was another whose eloquence was often unintentionally destructive through its gloomy diagnoses and assumptions. I have often wondered if the three men realised how negative they appeared to be.

Although these three Bishops did not represent mainstream thought in the House of Bishops, they undoubtedly affected its mood, as pessimism and despondency always will. Mark Santer, Bishop of Birmingham, was one of the most articulate and probing of the Bishops and a joy to hear, especially on ecumenical matters. David Sheppard, Bishop of Liverpool, and Jim Thompson, at that time Bishop of Stepney, spoke up passionately for the Church’s involvement in society, and were very much behind the report Faith in the City which had caused such a furore a few years before, and which was about to take a practical form through the implementation of one of its recommendations, the Church Urban Fund.

The Church Urban Fund was a test of our mettle as Bishops, and although a majority of us voted to go ahead with it, I was troubled by a clear lack of enthusiasm among some of our number. We were not agreed on the principle of raising substantial funds for the urban Church, and some were convinced that the proposed figure of £20 million could not be raised in the economic climate of the late 1980s. It was a moderate triumph that we eventually agreed to raise this sum, which in my view was a very modest goal. The Fund was launched in Westminster Abbey in 1989, and attracted great publicity because there was so little government money going into urban development at the time. That the Church of England was prepared to pour so much money into our cities was a vigorous sign of our mission to the nation.

As far as Bath and Wells was concerned, our mainly rural diocese was expected to raise £350,000, which to my delight we managed relatively easily. Indeed, we gave £500,000 to CUF, and could have raised much more. Most dioceses reached their targets with ease, and in some cases – Oxford and Lichfield – raised substantially greater sums which were used to fuel diocesan projects. It has always seemed to me a pity that we had not started with the aim of raising twice as much money, although that would have met many objections.

As it happened, the way the Fund operated meant that far more than £20 million was given to our cities. Because a great number of the grants were offered on a matching basis, or initiated other giving, it is possible that the CUF in reality made £40 million available. Later, as Archbishop, I was able to see at first hand what a difference the Fund made to our mission. I recall visiting Barking and Dagenham, and seeing six CUF projects. I was amazed to find so many people in those churches supporting the vulnerable. When I asked the Archdeacon of West Ham, Tim Stevens, what difference the Fund had made to my old haunts, he replied simply, ‘It has made us credible.’ On the present level of funding grants, the CUF will come to an end in 2007. Will the Church have the courage and faith to relaunch it? We shall see.

If I had worries that Church of England Bishops were disunited, my experience of the Lambeth Conference of 1988 raised major questions in my mind about the state of worldwide Anglicanism. As the Conference fell just seven months after I had taken up office as Bishop, I was one of the newest there, and found myself rubbing shoulders with such giants as the Nobel Prize-winning Desmond Tutu and many others. On the face of it the Conference was a splendid show of Anglican strength and the growth of the Communion, especially in the developing world. I was, and am, proud to belong to a tradition which emphasises incarnational ministry among the very poor and the distressed. Desmond’s outstanding ministry in South Africa was greatly applauded, as was the fine work of Archbishop David Gitari in Kenya, whose bold condemnation of corruption had put him at great risk. Archbishop Robin Eames’s attempts to reconcile divided communities in Northern Ireland were also honoured, as was Bishop Samir Kaffity’s impassioned representation of the Palestinians.

But there was another side to Lambeth 1988, in spite of Robert Runcie’s gentle, wise and humorous leadership. I saw for the first time how easy it is for contentious matters to be ‘spun’ by the press. There were a number of Bishops who were able to use the media very cleverly. Bishop Jack Spong, Bishop of Newark in the United States, was particularly adept at getting his message across. A charming and handsome man, he was so often speaking to the media about the ordination of women and homosexuality that he was invisible as far as the Conference itself was concerned. The Bishop of London, Graham Leonard, was equally determined to promote his opposition to the ordination of women. Richard Holloway, the Bishop of Edinburgh, was the other media star turn of the Conference. But while all three were successful in getting the ear of the wider public, they gave a misleading impression of what was happening within the Conference itself. In the background was an awareness that Provinces such as England were preparing to introduce legislation to ordain women as priests, and that others such as the United States were already thinking beyond this, to the ordination of practising homosexuals.